ump," Elizabeth tittered.

"Turn your face this way," said Parson Lute.

She laughed.

"This way," said Parson Lute.

"Go 'way!" Elizabeth laughed. "Go on with you!" She hid her flaming
face. "You didn't ought t' see me in bed!" she gasped. "Go 'way!"

"My child," said Parson Lute, patiently, "turn your face this way."

She would not. "Go 'way!" said she.

"This way!" Parson Lute repeated.

It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women
of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a
masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson--not
this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged
glances--exchanged nudges. Elizabeth's laughter ceased. All the women
of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion
was all outside--wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart
from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the
wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were
drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of
the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor
of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle's wife,
who would not heed her.

"'Tis not good for her," Aunt Esther whispered.

"You leave me be!" Elizabeth complained.

Parson Lute took her hand.

"You quit that!" said Elizabeth.

"Hush, daughter," the parson pleaded.

Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.

"Have Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked. "Haven't he come yet?"

Aunt Esther shook her head.

"I wants un," said Elizabeth, "when he've come."

The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, rough hand he
held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he
dropped it--and frowned.

"Woman," he cried, in distress, "don't you know that you are dying?"

Elizabeth's glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing
her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; 'twas an
apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.

"How is it with your soul?" he asked.

'Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious
desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls;
but yet Elizabeth's glance moved swiftly to the parson's eyes, in a
rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained,
fascinated.

"Are you trusting in your Saviour's love?"

I accuse myself for speaking, in