th?"

Isabel was thinking; but the question, twice repeated, brought her to
herself. She began to laugh, peal on peal of hysterical mirth; and the
parson, still holding her arm, grew compassionate.

"Poor soul!" said he soothingly. "Poor soul! sit down here by the stove
and be calm--be calm!"

Isabel was overcome anew.

"Oh, it isn't so!" she gasped, finding breath. "I'm not crazy. Just let
me be!"

She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again.
Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. "Who's there?" she
called.

"It's your aunt Mary Ellen," came a voice from the darkness. "Open the
door."

"O my soul!" whispered Isabel to herself. "Wait a minute!" she
continued. "Only a minute!"

She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door. The
act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey in
such awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to be
refused. Isabel felt equal to doing it.

"Now, look here," said she rapidly; "you stand right there while I take
off these things. Don't you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don't you speak!"
Bonnet, false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile.

"Isabel!" gasped the parson.

"Keep still!" she commanded. "Here! fold this shawl!"

The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the
mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue
chest, and packed the articles hastily within. "Here!" said she; "toss
me the shawl. Now if you say one word--Oh, parson, if you only will keep
still, I'll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!" And leaving
him standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door.

"Well," said aunt Mary Ellen, stepping in, "I'm afraid your hinges want
greasing. How do you do, Isabel? How do you do?" She put up her face and
kissed her niece. Aunt Mary Ellen was so pretty, so round, so small,
that she always seemed timid, and did the commonest acts of life with a
gentle grace. "I heard voices," she said, walking into the sitting-room.
"Sadie here?"

The parson had stepped forward, more bent than usual, for he was peering
down into her face.

"Mary Ellen!" he exclaimed.

The little woman looked up at him--very sadly, Isabel thought.

"Yes, William," she answered. But she was untying her bonnet, and she
did not offer to shake hands.

Isabel stood by with downcast eyes, waiting to take her things, and
aunt Mary Ellen looked s