re, knocking at
the front door.

"Mary! Mary!" cried she, "if there ain't the young pa'son over to your
grandpa's. I dunno when anybody's called there, he's away so much. Like
as not he's heard how father carried on that night, an' now he's got
out, he's come right over, first thing, to tell him what folks think."

Mary looked up from the serpentine braid she was crocheting.

"Well, I guess he'd better not," she threatened. And her mother,
absorbed by curiosity, contented herself with the reproof implied in a
shaken head and pursed-up lips.

A sad and curious change had befallen Mary. She looked older. One week
had dimmed her brightness, and little puckers between her eyes were
telling a story of anxious care. For gran'ther had been home without her
seeing him. Mary felt as if he had repudiated the town. She knew well
that he had not abandoned her with it, but she could guess what the loss
of larger issues meant to him. Young Nick, if he had been in the habit
of expressing himself, would have said that father's mad was still up.
Mary knew he was grieved, and she grieved also. She had not expected him
until the end of the week. Then watching wistfully, she saw the
darkness come, and knew next day would bring him; but the next day it
was the same. One placid afternoon, a quick thought assailed her, and
stained her cheek with crimson. She laid down the sheet which was her
"stent" of over-edge, and ran with flying feet to the little house.
Hanging by her hands upon the sill of the window nearest the clock, she
laid her ear to the glass. The clock was ticking serenely, as of old.
Gran'ther had been home to wind it. So he had come in the night, and
slipped away again in silence!

* * * * *

"There! he's gi'n it up!" cried Hattie, still watching the minister.
"He's turnin' down the path. My land! he's headed this way. He's comin'
here. You beat up that cushion, an' throw open the best-room door. My
soul! if your grandpa's goin' to set the whole town by the ears, I wisht
he'd come home an' fight his own battles!"

Hattie did not look at her young daughter; but if she had looked, she
might have been amazed. Mary stood firm as iron; she was more than ever
a chip o' the old block.

When the young minister had somewhat weakly climbed the two front steps,
he elected not to sit in the best room, for he was a little chilly, and
would like the sun. Presently he was installed in the new cane-backe