“I know it,” was the hurried reply.  “Where’s Nat?”

“I don’t know.  Can’t keep track of him.  Might’s well try to put your finger on a flea.  He’s here to-day and gone yesterday, as the Scriptur’ says.  He ate a little mite of supper, but not much, and then off he puts.  Says he’s goin’ to walk the fog out’n his head.  I told him, s’ I, ‘You’ll walk a plaguey sight more in than you do out, this night,’ but he went just the same.  He was dreadful kind of dumpy and blue this evenin’.  Seemed to be sort of soggy in his mind.  And why he never went to meetin’ with his dad and why his dad never asked him to go is more’n I can tell.  Land of livin’, how I do gabble!  My grandmarm used to say my tongue was loose at both ends and hung in the middle, and I guess she wa’n’t fur off the course.  Good-by.  Take care of yourself.  You can put what’s left of that mock mince pie on the top shelf in the butt’ry and you’d better heave a dish towel or sunthin’ over it to keep the ants out.  There’s more ants in this house than there is dollars, a good sight.  Betsy B., she’s got a plan for keepin’ of ’em out by puttin’ sassers of brimstone round the shelves, but I told her, s’ I, ’them ants don’t care for no brimstone.  They’re used to it.  Sometimes I b’lieve they’re sent by the everlastin’ father of brimstone,’ and she—­”

She had reached the gate by this time, and Grace shut off the flow of conversation by closing the door.  Then she took a candle from the row on the dining-room mantel, lighted it, and went up to her own room.  Standing before the old-fashioned bureau with its little oval mirror, she hastily arranged her hair.  She did not wish to go to the prayer meeting at the chapel, but she felt that she must.  The Come-Outer gatherings, with their noisy singing and shouting, had grown more and more repugnant to her.

And to-night, of all nights!  How could she meet those people who had known her since she was a child, who boasted of her as one of their staunchest adherents, who believed in her and trusted her?  How could she meet them and talk with them, knowing what she knew and realizing that they, too, would know it on the morrow?  But her uncle would miss her and be worried about her if she did not come.  She could not bear to trouble him now; she never loved him so dearly, was never so anxious to humor his every wish as on this, perhaps the last evening they would spend together.  For, though she would not yet admit it, even to herself, her decision was made, had really been made the first time John Ellery asked her weeks before.  Only the thought of what might happen to him if she consented had caused her to hesitate so long.

She blew out the candle and came out into the hall at the head of the stairs.  She was about to descend when she heard voices.  The door of the dining room opened and closed.  She felt certain that Nat had returned and wondered who was with him.  Then she heard her uncle’s voice, speaking sharply and with unwonted sternness.