It was by no means a one-sided struggle.  Captain Elkanah, spurred on by the furious Annabel, marshaled his forces and proclaimed that Ellery, having disgraced the Regular Society, should no longer occupy its pulpit.

“If he does,” thundered Elkanah, “I shall never cross the threshold of that church.  And I’ve worshiped there for fifty years.  Hum—­ha!  I should like to know whose money has gone more liberal for that meeting house than mine!  But not another cent—­no, sir! not one—­if that licentious young scamp continues to blaspheme there.”

He hinted concerning a good-sized contribution toward a parish house, something the society needed.  If Ellery was discharged, the contribution would probably be made, not otherwise.  And this was a point worth considering.

Daniels also wrote to his influential friends of the National Regular Society.  But Captain Zebedee had forestalled him there and both letters were laid on the table to await further developments.  As for the Come-Outers, they were wild with rage and Grace was formally read out of their communion.

“I wonder,” shrieked Ezekiel Bassett, in prayer meeting, “what the sperrit of the good and great man who used to lead us from this ’ere platform would say if he was here now?  Hey? what would he say?”

Josiah Badger upreared his lanky person.  “I dreamed about Cap’n Eben t’other n-nin-nun-night,” he stammered.  “I see him just as—­p-pup-pup-plain as you hear me n-n-now.  And he says to me, he says, Josiah,’ he says, ‘I-I-I-I—­’”

“Ki yi!” broke in Thoph Baker, from the shadow of the rear seat.  Josiah turned to berate Thoph, who, being in disgrace because of his defense of Ellery, was reckless, and the communication from the dead leader of the Come-Outers was lost in the squabble which followed.

Meantime Keziah, installed as head nurse at the shanty, was having her troubles.  The minister was getting better, slowly but surely getting better.  The danger of brain fever was at an end, but he was very weak and must not be excited, so the doctor said.  He knew nothing of the struggle for and against him which was splitting Trumet in twain, and care was taken that he should not know it.  He was not allowed to talk, and, for the most part, was quite contented to be silent, watching Grace as she moved about the room.  If he wondered why she was still with him, he said nothing, and the thought of what his congregation might say did not vex him in the least.  She was there, he saw her every day, that was enough.

He had expressed a wish to talk with his housekeeper.  “I’ve got something to tell you, Aunt Keziah,” he said weakly.  “Some news for you and—­and—­”

“Cat’s foot!” snapped Keziah briskly, “don’t start in tellin’ me news now.  I’ve got my hands full as ’tis.  News’ll keep and you won’t, if you talk another minute.”

“But this is important.”

“So are you, though you may not think so.  If you don’t believe it ask Grace.”