ned porridge and Madam's lifted
eyebrows when it was tasted, which to the bond-girl was "Worse 'an a
lickin';" it was that further one of the grandmother's inquiries. How
should she answer them?

She loitered as long as she could, but the evil hour could not be
indefinitely postponed. Madam's habits were as exact as those of her
ancient clocks, and precisely as the four of them were striking six the
little silver bell tinkled in the dining-room.

With an air of every-day indifference, Alfaretta dished the burned
porridge upon a delicate china platter and filled a cut-glass pitcher
with milk. These she placed upon a silver tray and carried to the
shining mahogany table where the mistress was already seated. Then she
took her own place behind the lady's chair, as she had been trained,
ready to serve the simple meal; yet hardly had she stationed herself
there than the dreaded question came:

"Where is Montgomery, Alfaretta?"

"Oh, dear! How not to tell the truth an' how not to lie!" reflected the
perplexed girl, but not till the question was repeated did she reply: "I
s'pose he's--he's somewheres."

Madam's eyebrows were lifted then. "Why, Alfaretta!"

"Yes, Madam. I'm sorry the suppawn scorched. I--I was terr'ble sleepy
an' I stopped stirrin' a little minute an' first I knew--"

"I asked for Montgomery. Did you tell him that supper was served?"

"No, Madam."

"Please do so."

Glad of any reprieve from giving the answer she hated to make, the girl
left the room in haste, as if intent upon summoning the lad. But she
was gone longer than seemed necessary, nor did the waiting grandmother
hear the boyish voice she loved, despite its stammering; and she was
herself just rising to look for the lad herself when the maid reentered,
pale and breathless, and evidently frightened in extreme.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FACE IN THE DARKNESS

Miss Maitland had promptly engaged Deacon Meakin to take Moses' place
during the latter's enforced idleness, and the arrangement promised to
be satisfactory to all concerned.

Susanna had observed:

"You couldn't do better, Eunice. The deacon's forehanded himself, but he
likes money--all them Meakins do--an' he's been as oneasy as a fish out
o' water sence he sold his farm an' moved into the village. A man 'at's
been used to workin' seventeen hours a day, ever sence he was born till
he's turned sixty, ain't goin' to be content to lie abed till six seven
o'clock in the mornin' an'