The sun was low in the west as he entered the grove of pines on the bluff.  The red light between the boughs made brilliant carpet patterns on the thick pine needles and the smell was balsamy and sweet.  Between the tree trunks he caught glimpses of the flats, now partially covered, and they reminded him of his narrow escape and of Nat Hammond, his rescuer.  He had met the captain twice since then, once at the store and again on the main road, and had chatted with him.  He liked him immensely and wished he might count him as an intimate friend.  But intimacy between a Regular clergyman and the son of the leader of the Come-Outers was out of the question.  Partisans on both sides would shriek at the idea.

Thinking of the Hammond family reminded him of another member of it.  Not that he needed to be reminded; he had thought of her often enough since she ran away from him in the rain that night.  And the picture in the doorway was not one that he could forget—­or wanted to.  If she were not a Come-Outer, he could meet her occasionally and they might become friends.  She was a disconcerting young person, who lacked proper respect for one of his profession and laughed when she shouldn’t—­but she was interesting, he admitted that.

And then he saw her.  She was standing just at the outer edge of the grove, leaning against a tree and looking toward the sunset.  She wore a simple white dress and her hat hung upon her shoulders by its ribbons.  The rosy light edged the white gown with pink and the fringes of her dark hair were crinkly lines of fire.  Her face was grave, almost sad.

John Ellery stood still, with one foot uplifted for a step.  The girl looked out over the water and he looked at her.  Then a crow, one of several whirling above the pines, spied the intruder and screamed a warning.  The minister was startled and stepped back.  A dead limb beneath his foot cracked sharply.  Grace turned and saw him.

“Oh!” she cried.  “Who is it?”

Ellery emerged from the shadow.

“Don’t be frightened, Miss Van Horne,” he said.  “It is—­er—­I.”

This statement was neither brilliant nor original; even as an identification it lacked considerable.

“I?” repeated the girl.  “Who?  Oh!  Why—­”

The minister came forward.

“Good afternoon, Miss Van Horne,” he stammered.  “I’m afraid I frightened you.”

She was looking at him with a queer expression, almost as if she scarcely believed him real.

“I hope—­” he began again.  She interrupted him.

“No,” she said confusedly, “you didn’t frighten me.  I was a little startled when I saw you there behind me.  It seemed so odd, because I was just thinking—­No, I wasn’t frightened.  What is there to be frightened of—­in Trumet?”

He had extended his hand, but partially withdrew it, not sure how even such a perfunctory act of friendliness might be received.  She saved him embarrassment by frankly offering her own.