Adam. "'Tis kind of professional work with 'em an' they've
got the advantage of the rest of us bein' so used to pulpit speakin'."

"I suppose our Mr. Mullen might have whomsoever he'd set his eyes on,"
pursued Solomon.

"Without a doubt he might. If all else failed him he'd but to ax her in
his pulpit gown an' his prayin' voice, an' thar'd be no gainsayin' him
for a female. Let him boom out 'Dearly Beloved,' as he does in church
an' ten chances to one she'd answer 'Amen' just out of the habit. I'm a
bold man, suh, an' I've al'ays been, but I ain't one to stand up ag'inst
a preacher when thar's a woman in the race."

Wrapping his blue knitted comforter about his throat, Abel nodded,
good-humoredly to the group, and went out to his gig, which he had left
under a shed in the yard. As he removed the blanket from his mare, his
mind dwelt stubbornly on the remarks old Adam had let fall concerning
clergymen and women. He had already convinced himself that the Reverend
Mr. Mullen was the object of Molly's preference, and his nature was big
enough to rejoice that she should have chosen so good a man. At least,
if this were true, Jonathan Gay would not be his rival.

It was the season of the year when the sunny days gave place to frosty
nights, and all the changes of the autumn--the reddening of the fruit,
the ripening of the nuts, the falling of the leaves--appeared to occur
in the hours between sunset and sunrise. A thin and watery moon shed a
spectral light over the meadows, which seemed to float midway between
the ashen band of the road and the jagged tops of the pines on the
horizon. There was no wind, and the few remaining leaves on the trees
looked as if they were cut out of velvet. The promise of a hoar-frost
was in the air--and a silver veil lay already over the distance.

When he had turned into the branch road that led from the turnpike to
the mill, a gig passed him, driven rapidly, and Reuben Merryweather
called "good-night," in his friendly voice. An instant later a spot of
white in the road caught Abel's glance, and alighting, he picked up a
knitted scarf, which he recognized even in the moonlight as one that
Molly had worn. Looking back he saw that the other gig had stopped at
the turnpike, and as he hastened toward it with the scarf in his hand,
he was rewarded by a flash of bright eyes from the muffled figure at
Reuben's side.

"I found this in the road," he said, "you must have dropped it."

"Yes, it fel