“I’m not judging your uncle,” he declared.  “It seemed to me that the boot was on the other leg.”

“I know, but you do judge him, and you mustn’t.  You see, he thought you had come to make fun of him—­and us.  Some of the Regular people do, people who aren’t fit to tie his shoes.  And so he spoke against you.  He’ll be sorry when he thinks it over.  That’s what I came to tell you.  I ask your pardon for—­for him.”

“Why—­why, that’s all right.  I think I understood—­”

“I’m not asking it because he’s a Come-Outer and you’re a Regular minister.  He isn’t ashamed of his religion.  Neither am I. I’m a Come-Outer, too.”

“Yes.  I—­I supposed you were.”

“Yes, I am.  There, good night, Mr. Ellery.  All I ask is that you don’t think too hardly of uncle.  He didn’t mean it.”

She turned away now, and it was the minister who detained her.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly, for in his present state of mind it was a hard thing to say, “that perhaps I ought to apologize, too.  I’m afraid I did disturb your service and I’m sorry.  I meant well, but—­What’s that?  Rain?”

There was no doubt about it; it was rain and plenty of it.  It came in a swooping downpour that beat upon the trees and bushes and roared upon the roof of the chapel.  The minister hurriedly raised his umbrella.

“Here!” he cried, “let me—­Miss Van Horne!  Where are you?”

The answer came from a short distance down the “Turn-off.”

“Good night,” called the girl.  “I must run.”

Evidently, she was running.  Therefore the young man ran after her.  He caught up with her in a moment, in spite of some stumbles over the rough road.

“Here!” he commanded, “you must take the umbrella.  Really, you must.  You haven’t one and you’ll be wet through.”

She pushed the umbrella aside.

“No, no,” she answered.  “I don’t need it; I’m used to wet weather; truly I am.  And I don’t care for this hat; it’s an old one.  You have a long way to go and I haven’t.  Please, Mr. Ellery, I can’t take it.”

“Very well,” was the sternly self-sacrificing reply, “then I shall certainly go with you.”

“But I don’t wish you to.”

“I can’t help that.  I’m not going to let you go unprotected through this flood.  Especially as you might have been at home before this if you hadn’t stopped to speak with me.”

“But you mustn’t.”

“I shall.”

Here was the irresistible force and the immovable object.  They stood stock still in the middle of the road, while the rain drops jumped as they struck the umbrella top.  The immovable object, being feminine, voiced the unexpected.

“All right,” she said; “then I suppose I shall have to take it.”

“What?”

“The umbrella.  I’m sorry, and you’ll get dreadfully wet, but it’s your own fault.”

He could feel her hand near his own on the handle.  He did not relinquish his grasp.