The rain that followed the flash of lightning had brought Margaret to the kitchen.

“Jean, did you ever hear such a rain?  It is trying to break into the manse.”

“I canna hear you, ma’am; is it the rain you’re feared at?”

“What else could it be?”

Jean did not answer.

“I hope the minister won’t leave the church, Jean, till this is over?”

“Nobody would daur, ma’am.  The rain’ll turn the key on them all.”

Jean forced out these words with difficulty, for she knew that the church had been empty and the door locked for over an hour.

“This rain has come as if in answer to the minister’s prayer, Jean.”

“It wasna rain like this they wanted.”

“Jean, you would not attempt to guide the Lord’s hand.  The minister will have to reprove the people for thinking too much of him again, for they will say that he induced God to send the rain.  To-night’s meeting will be remembered long in Thrums.”

Jean shuddered, and said, “It’s mair like an ordinary rain now, ma’am.”

“But it has put out your fire, and I wanted another heater.  Perhaps the one I have is hot enough, though.’”

Margaret returned to the parlor, and from the kitchen Jean could hear the heater tilted backward and forward in the box-iron—­a pleasant, homely sound when there is happiness in the house.  Soon she heard a step outside, however, and it was followed by a rough shaking of the barred door.

“Is it you, Mr. Dishart?” Jean asked nervously.

“It’s me, Tammas Whamond,” the precentor answered.  “Unbar the door.”

“What do you want?  Speak low.”

“I winna speak low.  Let me in.  I hae news for the minister’s mother.”

“What news?” demanded Jean.

“Jean Proctor, as chief elder of the kirk I order you to let me do my duty.”

“Whaur’s the minister?”

“He’s a minister no longer.  He’s married a gypsy woman and run awa wi’ her.”

“You lie, Tammas Whamond.  I believe—­”

“Your belief’s of no consequence.  Open the door, and let me in to tell your mistress what I hae seen.”

“She’ll hear it first frae his ain lips if she hears it ava.  I winna open the door.”

“Then I’ll burst it open,”

Whamond flung himself at the door, and Jean, her fingers rigid with fear, stood waiting for its fall.  But the rain came to her rescue by lashing the precentor until even he was forced to run from it.

“I’ll be back again,” he cried.  “Woe to you, Jean Proctor, that hae denied your God this nicht.”

“Who was that speaking to you, Jean?” asked Margaret, re-entering the kitchen.  Until the rain abated Jean did not attempt to answer.

“I thought it was the precentor’s voice,” Margaret said.

Jean was a poor hand at lying, and she stuttered in her answer.

“There is nothing wrong, is there?” cried Margaret, in sudden fright.  “My son—­”