Amidst the applause he heard the preacher suavely explain that those Popish masses were always in the Latin language, and rose from the instrument satisfied with his experiment.  Excusing himself as an invalid from joining them in a light collation in the dining room, and begging his hostess’s permission to retire, he nevertheless lingered a few moments by the door as the ladies filed out of the room, followed by the gentlemen, until Deacon Turner, who was bringing up the rear, was abreast of him.  Here Mr. Hamlin became suddenly deeply interested in a framed pencil drawing which hung on the wall.  It was evidently a schoolgirl’s amateur portrait, done by Mrs. Rivers.  Deacon Turner halted quickly by his side as the others passed out—­which was exactly what Mr. Hamlin expected.

“Do you know the face?” said the deacon eagerly.

Thanks to the faithful Melinda, Mr. Hamlin did know it perfectly.  It was a pencil sketch of Mrs. Rivers’s youthfully erring sister.  But he only said he thought he recognized a likeness to some one he had seen in Sacramento.

The deacon’s eye brightened.  “Perhaps the same one—­perhaps,” he added in a submissive and significant tone “a—­er—­painful story.”

“Rather—­to him,” observed Hamlin quietly.

“How?—­I—­er—­don’t understand,” said Deacon Turner.

“Well, the portrait looks like a lady I knew in Sacramento who had been in some trouble when she was a silly girl, but had got over it quietly.  She was, however, troubled a good deal by some mean hound who was every now and then raking up the story wherever she went.  Well, one of her friends—­I might have been among them, I don’t exactly remember just now—­challenged him, but although he had no conscientious convictions about slandering a woman, he had some about being shot for it, and declined.  The consequence was he was cowhided once in the street, and the second time tarred and feathered and ridden on a rail out of town.  That, I suppose, was what you meant by your ‘painful story.’  But is this the woman?”

“No, no,” said the deacon hurriedly, with a white face, “you have quite misunderstood.”

“But whose is this portrait?” persisted Jack.

“I believe that—­I don’t know exactly—­but I think it is a sister of Mrs. Rivers’s,” stammered the deacon.

“Then, of course, it isn’t the same woman,” said Jack in simulated indignation.

“Certainly—­of course not,” returned the deacon.

“Phew!” said Jack.  “That was a mighty close call.  Lucky we were alone, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said the deacon, with a feeble smile.

“Seth,” continued Jack, with a thoughtful air, “looks like a quiet man, but I shouldn’t like to have made that mistake about his sister-in-law before him.  These quiet men are apt to shoot straight.  Better keep this to ourselves.”