the week which followed this particular conversation he was more
absent-minded than ever. There were evenings when he spoke scarcely a
word, but sat silent in his chair, while Keziah, looking up from her
mending, watched him and guessed and wondered. After he had gone to his
room for the night, she would hear him pacing the floor, back and forth,
back and forth. She asked no more questions, however; minding her own
business was a specialty of Keziah's, and it was a rare quality in
Trumet.

Sunday was a cloudy, warm day, "muggy," so Captain Zeb described it.
After the morning service Mr. Ellery, as usual, went home with Captain
Daniels and Annabel. Keziah returned to the parsonage, ate a lonely
dinner, washed the dishes, and sat down to read a library book. She
read for an hour and then, finding it difficult to keep her mind on the
story, gave it up, closed the book and, rising, walked to the window.
But the misty, hot loneliness of the afternoon, was neither interesting
nor cheerful, so she turned away and went upstairs to her own room. Her
trunk was in one corner of this room and she unlocked it, taking from
a compartment of the tray a rosewood writing case, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, a present from her father, who had brought it home from
sea when she was a girl.

From the case she took a packet of letters and a daguerreotype. The
latter was the portrait of a young man, in high-collared coat, stock,
and fancy waistcoat. His hair, worn long over the ears, was smooth with
a shine that suggested oil, and in his shirt front was a large pin,
which might possibly have been mistaken by a credulous observer for a
diamond. Mrs. Coffin looked at the daguerreotype, sighed, shuddered, and
laid it aside. Then she opened the packet of letters. Selecting one from
the top of the pile, she read it slowly. And, as she read, she sighed
again.

She did not hear the back door of the parsonage open and close softly.
Nor did she hear the cautious footsteps in the rooms below. What aroused
her from her reading was her own name, spoken at the foot of the stairs.

"Keziah! Keziah, are you there?"

She started, sprang up, and ran out into the hall, the letter still in
her hand.

"Who is it?" she asked sharply. "Mr. Ellery, is that you?"

"No," was the answer. "It's me--Nat. Are you busy, Keziah? I want to see
you for a minute."

The housekeeper hurriedly thrust the letter into her waist.

"I'll be right down, Nat," she answered. "