u've got to stay here with me. You can't go to that house. You can't
go to her."

"Mrs. Coffin, what are you saying? Do you know--Have you--"

"Yes, I know all about it. I know about the meetin's in the pines and
all. Oh, why didn't you trust me and tell me? If you had, all would have
been SO much better!"

He looked at her in utter amazement. The blood rushed to his face.

"You know THAT?" he whispered.

"Yes, I know."

"Did she tell--"

"No, nobody told. That is, only a little. I got a hint and I suspicioned
somethin' afore. The rest I saw with my own eyes."

He was now white, but his jaw shot forward and his teeth closed.

"If you do know," he said, "you must realize that my place is with her.
Now, when she is in trouble--"

"Would you want to make that trouble greater? More than she could bear?"

"I think I might help her to bear it. Mrs. Coffin, you have been my
truest friend, but one, in Trumet. You HAVE been like a mother to me.
But I have thought this out to the end and I shall go through with it.
It is my affair--and hers. If my own mother were alive and spoke as you
do, I should still go through with it. It is right, it is my life. I'm
not ashamed of anything I've done. I'm proud. I'm proud of her. And
humble only when I think how unworthy I am to be her husband. I suppose
you are fearful of what my congregation will say. Well, I've thought of
that, too, and thought it through. Whatever they say and whatever they
do will make no difference. Do you suppose I will let THEM keep me from
her? Please open that door."

He was very tragic and handsome--and young, as he stood there. The tears
overflowed the housekeeper's eyes as she looked at him. If her own love
story had not been broken off at its beginning, if she had not thrown
her life away, she might have had a son like that. She would have given
all that the years had in store for her, given it gladly, to have been
able to open the door and bid him go. But she was firm.

"It ain't the congregation, John," she said. "Nor Trumet, nor your
ministry. That means more'n you think it does, now; but it ain't that.
You mustn't go to her because--well, because she don't want you to."

"Doesn't want me? I know better." He laughed in supreme scorn.

"She doesn't want you, John. She wouldn't see you if you went. She would
send you away again, sure, sartin sure. She would. And if you didn't
go when she sent you, you wouldn't be the man I hope you are. John,