“‘For Heaven sakes!’ says father; ‘what happened?’

“The half-breed looked up and rubbed his head.  ‘Ugh!’ says he, ’Billy Peter bust his shoe string.’

“The cook, his name was O’Neill, looked at him disgusted.  ’Well, begorra!’ says he, ’Billy Peter, you don’t exaggerate none, do ye!  It’s a good thing both of ’em didn’t bust or we’d have foundered.’

“You remind me of Billy Peter, Mr. Ellery, you don’t exaggerate.  Queer?  Some folks think your goin’ to that meetin’ last night queer?  At this moment one half of Trumet is talkin’ about it and runnin’ out to tell the other half.  I guess I’d better hurry up with this breakfast.  We’re goin’ to have callers.”

Strange to say, however, this prophecy of early morning visitors did not prove true.  Nine o’clock, then ten, and no visitor came to the parsonage.  Mrs. Coffin affirmed that she did not understand it.  Where was Didama?  Where Lavinia Pepper?  Had the “Trumet Daily Advertiser” suspended publication?

At half past ten the gate slammed.  Keziah peered from the window.

“Humph!” she ejaculated.  “Here comes Elkanah and he’s got storm signals set, by the looks.  He’s comin’ after you, Mr. Ellery.”

“Very well,” was the calm reply; “let him come.”

“What are you goin’ to say to him?”

“Nothing, except that I did what I considered right at the time.  Show him into the study, Mrs. Coffin, please.”

Captain Daniels marched to the dining-room door, his gold-headed cane marking time like a drumbeat.  He nodded curtly to Keziah, who answered the knock, and stepped across the threshold.

“Hum—­ha!” he barked.  “Is the minister—­hum—­ha! is Mr. Ellery in?”

“Yes, he’s in.”

“Tell him I want to see him.”

The housekeeper announced the visitor.

“He’s as sour as a skimmin’ of last week’s milk,” she whispered.  “Don’t be afraid of him, though.”

“Oh, I’m not.  Show him in.”

“All right.  Say, Mr. Ellery, it’s none of my business, but I wouldn’t say anything about your seein’ Grace home.  That’s none of his business, either, or anybody else’s.”

The head of the parish committee stalked into the study and the door closed behind him.  A rumble of voices in animated conversation succeeded.

Mrs. Coffin went out into the kitchen and resumed her business of making a dried-apple pie.  There was a hot fire in the stove and she opened the back door to let in the fresh air.  She worked briskly, rolling out the dough, filling the deep dish, and pinking the edges of the upper crust with a fork.  She was thinking as she worked, but not of the minister or his visitor.

She put the pie in the oven and set the damper.  And, as she knelt by the stove, something struck her lightly on the back of the neck.  She looked up and about her, but there was no one in sight.  Then she picked up the object which had struck her.  It was a cranberry, withered and softened by the winter frosts.