pretty wet. By the way, the packet came in to-night. They didn't expect
her so soon on account of the fog. There was a passenger aboard whom I
think must be that Nathaniel Hammond you told me of."

Keziah's pen stopped. The wet coat struck the hall floor with a soft
thump. The tick of the clock sounded loud in the room. A sheet of
wind-driven rain lashed the windows.

"Did you hear?" called the minister. "I said that Nathaniel Hammond,
Captain Eben's son, came on the packet. I didn't meet him, but I'm sure
it was he. Er--Mrs. Coffin, are you there? Do you hear me?"

The housekeeper laid the pen down beside the unfinished letter.

"Yes," she said, "I hear you. Good night."

For minutes she sat there, leaning back in her chair and staring at the
wall. Then she rose, went into the hall, picked up the coat, and took it
out into the kitchen, where she hung it on the clotheshorse by the cook
stove. After a while she returned to the table and took up the pen. Her
face in the lamplight looked more tired and grave than ever.

It was a long time before John Ellery fell asleep. He had much to think
of--of the morrow, of the talk his rash visit to the chapel would cause,
of the explanation he must make to Captain Elkanah and the rest. But the
picture that was before his closed eyes as he lay there was neither of
Captain Elkanah nor the parish committee; it was that of a girl, with
dark hair and a slim, graceful figure, standing in a lighted doorway and
peering out into the rain.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS MEET

When Ellery came down to breakfast the rain was over, the wind had
gone down, and the morning sunshine was pouring in at the dining-room
windows. Outside the lilacs were in bud, the bluebirds were singing, and
there was a sniff of real spring in the air. The storm was at an end and
yet the young minister was conscious of a troublesome feeling that, for
him, it was just beginning.

However, he had determined while dressing to make a clean breast of it
to his housekeeper--a nominally clean breast, that is. There were some
things he would not tell her, some that he would not speak of to anyone,
the picture in the doorway for instance. True, it was only a picture
and of no moment, but it was pleasant to remember. One of the very few
pleasant things connected with the previous evening.

So, as they sat opposite each other at the table, he began his
confession. The muffins scorched in the oven and the coff