rs, and she 'ain't done a thing during the hull
seven years that any one kin lay a finger on!"

The men shouted again at this back-handed tribute, and the old fellow
left the grocery in a huff. Later I was told of the "incineration" and
his eloquent defense of me, and I thanked him for it. But I added:

"I hear you said I haven't done a thing in seven years that any one can
lay a finger on?"

"I said it," declared the Captain, "and I'll stand by it."

"Haven't I done any good?" I asked.

"Sartin you have," he assured me, heartily. "Lots of good."

"Well," I said, "can't you put your finger on that?"

The Captain looked startled. "Why--why--Sister Shaw," he stammered,
"you know I didn't mean THAT! What I meant," he repeated, slowly and
solemnly, "was that the hull time you been here you ain't done nothin'
anybody could put a finger on!"

Captain Doane apparently shared my girl parishioner's prejudice against
men in the pulpit, for long afterward, on one of my visits to Cape Cod,
he admitted that he now went to church very rarely.

"When I heard you preach," he explained, "I gen'ally followed you
through and I knowed where you was a-comin' out. But these young fellers
that come from the theological school--why, Sister Shaw, the Lord
Himself don't know where they're comin' out!"

For a moment he pondered. Then he uttered a valedictory which I have
always been glad to recall as his last message, for I never saw him
again.

"When you fust come to us," he said, "you had a lot of crooked places,
an' we had a lot of crooked places; and we kind of run into each other,
all of us. But before you left, Sister Shaw, why, all the crooked places
was wore off and everything was as smooth as silk."

"Yes," I agreed, "and that was the time to leave--when everything was
running smoothly."

All is changed on Cape Cod since those days, thirty years ago. The old
families have died or moved away, and those who replaced them were of a
different type. I am happy in having known and loved the Cape as it was,
and in having gathered there a store of delightful memories. In later
strenuous years it has rested me merely to think of the place, and long
afterward I showed my continued love of it by building a home there,
which I still possess. But I had little time to rest in this or in my
Moylan home, of which I shall write later, for now I was back in Boston,
living my new life, and each crowded hour brought me more to do.

We were