you every day for orders you reckoned to
turn him out of the parish. You've not one thing against him, and you
know it, Sylvester Bascom. He's shown you every kind of respect as
his Senior Warden, and more patience than you deserved. He let himself
be--no, _had_ himself--bled, to save your life. But instead of making
him the best young friend you could have had, and makin' yourself of
real use to your town and your neighbors through him and his work,
you've let the devil get into you; and when your accident come, you'd
got to where you were runnin' that fast down a steep place into the
sea that I could 'most hear the splash."

She cocked her head on one side, and smiled at him whimsically, hoping
for some response to her humorous picture. A faint ghost of a
smile--was it, or was it not?--flickered on the old man's lips; but he
gave no sign of grace.

Hepsey sighed, and paused for an instant. "Well--we can't sit here
talkin' till midnight, or I shall be compromisin' your reputation, I
suppose. There'll be a meeting of the parishioners called at the end
of this week, and the rector won't be present at it; so, Warden, I
suppose you'll preside. I hope you will. I've got to do my part--and
that is to see that the parish understands just how their rector's
placed, right now, both about his house and his salary. He's workin'
as a laborer to get enough for him and that little wife of his to live
on, and the town knows it--but they don't all know that it's because
the salary that's properly his is bein' held back on him, and by
those that pay their chauffeurs more than the rector gets, by a good
piece. I shall call on every one at that meetin' to pay up; and I
shall begin with the poorest, and end up"--she fixed Bascom's eye,
significantly--"with the richest. And if it seems to be my duty to do
it, I may have somethin' more to say when the subscription's
closed--but I don't believe--no," she added, opening her bag and
rummaging about among its contents till she hit upon a letter and
brought it forth, "no, I don't believe I'll have to say a thing. I've
got a hunch, Sylvester Bascom, that it'll be you that'll have the last
word, after all."

[Illustration: "I'VE GOT A HUNCH, SYLVESTER BASCOM, THAT IT'LL BE YOU
THAT'LL HAVE THE LAST WORD, AFTER ALL"]

The old man's glance was riveted upon the familiar handwriting of the
faded letter, and without a word Hepsey started to read it, date and
all, in a clear voice: