soothed the rector. "Nothing at all, I
assure you. My wife is a trifle overwrought this morning. Nothing of any
consequence. I mean--that is, of course--we must all keep our spirits
up, Mr. Grimm."

"Good Lord, deliver us!" intoned McPherson in mingled fervour and
disgust.

"I know what it is," declared Peter with sudden enlightenment. "You've
just come from a wedding! That's it! I know. Women love weddings better
than anything on earth. They'll talk about it for months beforehand.
They'll walk miles to attend one.--And they'll weep all the rest of the
day. I don't know why. But they do it. I should be grateful, I suppose,
that no women were ever called upon to shed tears at _my_ wedding. But I
hope, before so very long----"

Mrs. Batholommey had not in the very least caught the drift of the
laughing speech whereby he had sought to put the poor woman at her ease.
And now all at once, the last sagging vestige of self-control went from
her.

"Oh, Mr. Grimm!" she moaned, breaking in upon his words. "You were
always so kind to us. There never was a better, kinder, gentler man in
all this world than you were."

"Than I _was_?" asked Peter bewildered. "Is my character changing
or----?"

"No, no!" she corrected herself flounderingly. "I don't mean that. I
mean--I meant----"

Her gaze fluttered helplessly about the big room and chanced at last to
fall upon the reading boy, asprawl on the gallery bench above them.

"I meant," she plunged along, "what would become of poor little Willem
if you----?"

This time her glance was caught and transfixed by McPherson's furious
glare, much as a great flopping beetle might be pierced by the sting of
a wasp. Mrs. Batholommey prided herself upon her tact. That glare nerved
her to another effort.

"You see," she shrilled, wildly and awkwardly clambering out of the
slough, "it's fearful he had such a 'M.'"

"Such a 'M'?" queried Peter. "What does that mean?"

With a warning glance toward the absorbed boy she shaped her lips
noiselessly into the word "Mother."

"Oh!" said Peter. "I understand. But----"

"She ought to have told Mr. Batholommey or me," went on Mrs.
Batholommey, climbing still higher on to solid ground, "who the 'F'
was."

"'F'? What does that mean?"

And again the rabbit-like lips shaped themselves into a soundless word,
this time 'Father.'

"Oh," grunted Peter, "the word you want isn't 'Father,' but 'Scoundrel!'
Whoever he is----"

Willem flung aside h