“The telegraph office isn’t open on Sundays, Primmie.”

“No’m, I know ’tain’t.  But Ras Beebe he takes care of all the telegraphs there is and telephones ’em over to Denboro, where the telegraph place is open Sundays.”

“Oh, all right, Primmie, you may go.  Is Mr. Bangs in?”

“No’m, he ain’t.  He’s gone out somewheres.  To walk, I cal’late.  Last I see of him he was moonin’ along over towards the lighthouse way.”

Primmie departed and Martha, alone in the gathering dimness of the afternoon, resumed her thinking.  It was an endless round, that thinking of hers—­but, of course, it could end in but one way.  Even to wish such things was wicked.  For his sake, that was what Mr. Cabot had said.  Ah, yes, but it was for his sake that she must remain firm.

A big drop of rain splashed, and exploded like a miniature watery bombshell, against the windowpane.  Martha looked up.  Then she became aware of a faint tinkling in the room below.  The telephone bell was ringing.

She hurried downstairs and put the receiver to her ear.  It was Mr. Beebe speaking and he wished to ask something concerning a message which had been left in his care by Primmie Cash.

“It’s signed by that Mr. Galushy Bangs of yours,” explained Erastus.  “I’ve got to ’phone it to the telegraph office and there’s a word in it I can’t make out.  Maybe you could help me, Martha, long’s Bangs isn’t there.  ‘Tain’t nothin’ private, I don’t cal’late.  I’ll read it to you if you want I should.”

He began to read without waiting for permission.  The message was addressed to the Board of Directors of the National Institute at Washington, D. C., and began like this: 

“Deeply regret necessity of refusing your generous and flattering offer to lead—­”

It was just here that Mr. Beebe’s ability to decipher the Bangs’ handwriting broke down.

“I can’t make out the next word, Martha,” he said.  “It begins with an F, but the rest of it ain’t nothin’ but a string of kinks.  It’s all head and no tail, that word is.”

“What does it look like?”

“Hey?  Looks like a whiplash or an eel, more’n anything else.  It might be ‘epizootic’ or—­or—­’eclipsin’’—­or—­ The word after it ain’t very plain neither, but I kind of think that it’s ‘expedition.’”

“‘Expedition’?  Is the word you can’t make out ’Egyptian’?”

“Hey? . . .  ‘Egyptian?’ Well, I snum, I guess ’tis!  ‘Egyptian.’ . . .  Humph!  I never thought of that.  I—­”

“Read me the whole of that telegram, Erastus.  Read it.”

Mr. Beebe read it.  “Deeply regret necessity of refusing your generous and flattering offer to lead Egyptian expedition.  Do not feel equal to the work.  Decision final.  Will write.—­Galusha Bangs.”

Martha’s hand shook as it held the receiver to her ear.  He had refused the greatest honor of his life.  He had declined to carry out the wonderful “plan” concerning which he and she had so often speculated. . . .  And she knew why he had refused.