as it is."

It was in vain for the doctor to declare that this was a colloquialism
which might mean much or little, as you chose to take it. The minister,
justly hurt, remarked that, when a man was in a tight place, he needed
the support of his friends, if he had any; and the doctor went whistling
drearily away, conscious that he could have said much worse about the
address, without doing it justice.

The only earthly circumstance which seemed to be fulfilling its duty
toward Tiverton was the weather. That shone seraphically bright. The air
was never so soft, the skies were never so clear and far, and they were
looking down indulgently on all this earthly turmoil when, something
before midnight, on the fateful eve, Nicholas Oldfield went up the path
to his side-door, and stumbled over despairing Mary on the step.

"What under the heavens"--he began; but Mary precipitated herself upon
him, and held him with both hands. The moral tension, which had held her
hopeless and rigid, gave way. She was sobbing wildly.

"O gran'ther!" she moaned, over and over again. "O gran'ther!"

Nicholas managed somehow to get the door open and walk in, hampered as
he was by the clinging arms of his tall girl. Then he sat down in the
big chair, taking Mary there too, and stroked her cheek. Perhaps he
could hardly have done it in the light, but at that moment it seemed
very natural. For a long time neither of them spoke. Mary had no words,
and it may be that Nicholas could not seek for them. At last she began,
catching her breath tremulously:--

"They've hunted everywhere, gran'ther. They've rode all over the county;
and after the celebration, they're going to--dr--drag the pond!"

"Well, I guess I can go out o' the county if I want to," responded
Nicholas calmly. "I come across a sheet in them rec'ids that told about
a pewter communion set over to Rocky Ridge, an' I've found part on 't in
a tavern there. Who put 'em up to all this work? Your father?"

"No," sobbed Mary. "The minister."

"The minister? What's he want?"

"He's got to write an address, and he wants you to tell him what to
say."

Then, in the darkness of the room, a slow smile stole over Nicholas
Oldfield's face, but his voice remained quite grave.

"Does, does he?" he remarked. "Well, he ain't the fust pa'son that's
needed a lift; but he's the fust one ever I knew to ask for it. I've got
nothin' for 'em, Mary. I come home to wind up the clocks; but I ain't
goin' to