the sound of voices floated across the picket fence. The
gate rasped on its rusted hinges; then slammed shut.

"If I was you, Mr. Elliot," came the penetrating accents of Mrs.
Solomon Black's voice, "I should hire a reg'lar reviv'list along in
th' fall, after preservin' an' house-cleanin' time. We need an
outpourin' of grace, right here in Brookville; and we can't get it no
other way."

And the minister's cultured voice in reply:

"I shall give your suggestion the most careful consideration, Mrs.
Black, between now and the autumn season."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Jim Dodge; "this is no place for me! Good
night, Miss Orr!"

She laid her hand in his.

"You can trust me," he said briefly, and became on the instant a
flitting shadow among the lilac bushes, lightly vaulting over the
fence and mingling with the darker shadows beyond.

Chapter IX

"Now, Henry," said Mrs. Daggett, as she smilingly set a plate of
perfectly browned pancakes before her husband, which he proceeded to
deluge with butter and maple syrup, "are you sure that's _so_, about
the furniture? 'Cause if it is, we've got two or three o' them things
right in this house: that chair you're settin' in, for one, an'
upstairs there's that ol' fashioned brown bureau, where I keep the
sheets 'n' pillow slips. You don't s'pose she'd want that, do you?"

Mrs. Daggett sank down in a chair opposite her husband, her large
pink and white face damp with moisture. Above her forehead a mist of
airy curls fluttered in the warm breeze from the open window.

"My, ain't it hot!" she sighed. "I got all het up a-bakin' them
cakes. Shall I fry you another griddleful, papa?"

"They cer'nly do taste kind o' moreish, Abby," conceded Mr. Daggett
thickly. "You do beat the Dutch, Abby, when it comes t' pancakes.
Mebbe I could manage a few more of 'em."

Mrs. Daggett beamed sincerest satisfaction.

"Oh, I don't know," she deprecated happily. "Ann Whittle says I don't
mix batter the way she does. But if _you_ like 'em, Henry--"

"Couldn't be beat, Abby," affirmed Mr. Daggett sturdily, as he
reached for his third cup of coffee.

The cook stove was only a few steps away, so the sizzle of the batter
as it expanded into generous disks on the smoking griddle did not
interrupt the conversation. Mrs. Daggett, in her blue and white
striped gingham, a pancake turner in one plump hand, smiled through
the odorous blue haze like a tutelary goddess. Mr. Daggett, in his
shirt