, some of which had peeled off and lay strewing the floor.
A smell of oil filled the air; it was sweet and sickly, and came from
the oozings of half a dozen untended lamps. Ornament the place had
none, save a decent damask cloth on the Communion table.

Oliver Vyell stood by the chancel rail. The rest of the congregation
comprised Mr. Trask, seated stiff and solitary in the largest pew, Mrs.
Strongtharm, and half a score of children whom Mrs. Strongtharm had
collected on the way and against her will. They followed her by habit,
after goodies; but just now, though they sat quiet, her reputation was
suffering from a transient distrust. (Allurements to piety rarely fell
in the path of a New England child; but even he was child enough to
suspect them when they occurred.) At the sound of the mare's footsteps
they turned their heads, one and all. Mr. Silk, clad in white surplice
and nervously turning the pages of the Office by the holy table, faced
about also.

Ruth was seen alighting, out there in the sunlight. She hitched the
mare's bridle over a staple and came lightly stepping through the shadow
of the porchway. Her lover walked down the aisle to meet her. He, too,
stepped briskly, courteously.

Three paces within the doorway she came to a halt. The sunlight fell on
her again, through the first of the southern windows. It flamed on the
leaves pinned to her bosom.

He offered his arm. But she, that had come stepping like a wild fawn,
like a fawn stood at gaze, terrified, staring past him at the figure by
the table. Mr. Silk commanded an oily smile and, book in hand, advanced
to the chancel step.

"Ah, no!" she murmured. "It is wicked--"

She cast her eyes around, as though for help. They did not turn--it was
pitifullest of all--to him who was about to swear to help her throughout
life. They turned and encountered Mr. Trask's.

With a sob, as Sir Oliver would have taken her arm, she threw it up,
broke from him, and fled back through the porchway. As she drew back
that one pace before fleeing, the sun fell full again on that
breast-knot of scarlet leaves.

He stared after her dumbfoundered, still doubting her intent.
He saw her catch at the mare's bridle, and, with a bitter curse, ran
forward. But he was too late. She had mounted, and was away.

He heard the mare's hoofs clattering up the street. His own horse was
stabled at the Ferry Inn. It would cost him ten minutes at least to
mount and pur