he churchyard. It was the sort of day when untoward
events, near and far, stand out with unpleasant prominence against
the background of one's everyday life. A day in which a man is led,
whether he will or not, to take stock of himself and to balance with
some care the credit and debit sides of his ledger.

Wesley Elliot had been working diligently on his sermon since nine
o'clock that morning, at which hour he had deserted Mrs. Solomon
Black's comfortable tight roof, to walk under the inadequate shelter
of a leaking umbrella to the parsonage.

Three closely written pages in the minister's neat firm handwriting
attested his uninterrupted diligence. At the top of the fourth page
he set a careful numeral, under it wrote "Thirdly," then paused, laid
down his pen, yawned wearily and gazed out at the dripping shrubbery.
The rain had come too late to help the farmers, he was thinking. It
was always that way: too much sunshine and dry weather; then too much
rain--floods of it, deluges of it.

He got up from his chair, stretched his cramped limbs and began
marching up and down the floor. He had fully intended to get away
from Brookville before another winter set in. But there were reasons
why he felt in no hurry to leave the place. He compelled himself to
consider them.

Was he in love with Lydia Orr? Honestly, he didn't know. He had half
thought he was, for a whole month, during which Lydia had faced him
across Mrs. Solomon Black's table three times a day.

As he walked up and down, he viewed the situation. Lydia had
declared, not once but often, that she wanted friends. Women always
talked that way, and meant otherwise. But did she? The minister shook
his head dubiously. He thought of Lydia Orr, of her beauty, of her
elusive sweetness. He was ashamed to think of her money, but he owned
to himself that he did.

Then he left his study and rambled about the chill rooms of the lower
floor. From the windows of the parlor, where he paused to stare out,
he could look for some distance up the street. He noticed dully the
double row of maples from which yellowed leaves were already
beginning to fall and the ugly fronts of houses, behind their shabby
picket fences. A wagon was creaking slowly through a shallow sea of
mud which had been dust the day before: beyond the hunched figure of
the teamster not a human being was in sight. Somewhere, a dog barked
fitfully and was answered by other dogs far away; and always the
shutter ban