She led the way into the dining room of the parsonage.  Two of the blinds shading the windows of that apartment had been opened when she and Captain Daniels made their visit, and the dim gray light made the room more lonesome and forsaken in appearance than a deeper gloom could possibly have done.  The black walnut extension table in the center, closed to its smallest dimensions because Parson Langley had eaten alone for so many years; the black walnut chairs set back against the wall at regular intervals; the rag carpet and braided mats—­homemade donations from the ladies of the parish—­on the green painted floor; the dolorous pictures on the walls; “Death of Washington,” “Stoning of Stephen,” and a still more deadly “fruit piece” committed in oils years ago by a now deceased boat painter; a black walnut sideboard with some blue-and-white crockery upon it; a gilt-framed mirror with another outrage in oils emphasizing its upper half; dust over everything and the cobwebs mentioned by Keziah draping the corners of the ceiling; this was the dining room of the Regular parsonage as Grace saw it upon this, her first visit.  The dust and cobwebs were, in her eyes, the only novelties, however.  Otherwise, the room was like many others in Trumet, and, if there had been one or two paintings of ships, would have been typical of the better class.

“Phew!” exclaimed Keziah, sniffing disgustedly.  “Musty and shut up enough, ain’t it?  Down here in the dampness, and ’specially in the spring, it don’t take any time for a house to get musty if it ain’t aired out regular.  Mr. Langley died only three months ago, but we’ve been candidatin’ ever since and the candidates have been boarded round.  There’s been enough of ’em, too; we’re awful hard to suit, I guess.  That’s it.  Do open some more blinds and a window.  Fresh air don’t hurt anybody—­unless it’s spiders,” with a glare at the loathed cobwebs.

The blinds and a window being opened, more light entered the room.  Grace glanced about it curiously.

“So this is going to be your new home now, Aunt Keziah,” she observed.  “How queer that seems.”

“Um—­h’m.  Does seem queer, don’t it?  Must seem queer to you to be so near the headquarters of everything your uncle thinks is wicked.  Smell of brimstone any, does it?” she asked with a smile.

“No, I haven’t noticed it.  You’ve got a lot of cleaning to do.  I wish I could help.  Look at the mud on the floor.”

Keziah looked.

“Mud?” she exclaimed.  “Why, so ’tis!  How in the world did that come here?  Wet feet, sure’s you’re born.  Man’s foot, too.  Cap’n Elkanah’s, I guess likely; though the prints don’t look hardly big enough for his.  Elkanah’s convinced that he’s a great man and his boots bear him out in it, don’t they?  Those marks don’t look broad enough for his understandin’, but I guess he made ’em; nobody else could.  Here’s the settin’ room.”

She threw open another door.  A room gloomy with black walnut and fragrant with camphor was dimly visible.