ation; they resented
disturbance.

"Well," Aunt Esther retorted, "I 'low, anyhow, he don't know much
about heart-trouble."

Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed.
The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable
than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. "Do you
know the portion of the wicked?" he asked, in loving-kindness, without
harshness whatsoever.

"Yes, sir."

"What is it?"

It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile
and answer. "Hell, sir," she answered.

"Are you prepared for the change?"

'Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth's conversion had been
diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of
what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere
and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled
into new attention.

"Yes, sir," she said.

It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by
Parson Stump. The woman was _not_ in a state of grace.

"You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?"

There was no answer.

"You have made your peace with an offended God?"

"No, sir."

"But you say that you are prepared?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have repented of your sin?"

"No, sir."

Parson Lute turned impatient. "And yet," he demanded, "you expect to
go to heaven?"

"No, sir."

"_What_!" cried Parson Lute.

"No, sir," she said.

Parson Lute was incredulous. "To hell?" he asked.

"Eh?"

"To _hell_?"

Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her
benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she
hesitated--frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of
Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle.

"Yes, sir," said she. "Most men goes there."

"But you," said he, in amaze, "are not a man!"

"Judith's father were," she answered; "an' I'm wantin'--oh, I'm
wantin'--t' see un once again!"

The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped....

* * * * *

The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind--the noise and wet
and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; 'twas a
crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference--a mocking
of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I
heard the wheeze and tread of my