She paused and glanced back at the chapel. Ezekiel Bassett, the janitor,
having extinguished the last lamp, had emerged from the door and was
locking up. In another moment he clumped past them in the middle of the
road, the circle of light from his lantern just missing them as they
stood in the grass at the side under the hornbeam and blackberry bushes.
He was alone; Sukey B. had gone on before, other and younger masculine
escort having been providentially provided.

Mr. Bassett was out of hearing before Grace finished her sentence. The
minister was silent, waiting and wondering.

"I felt," she said, "that I must see you and--explain. I am SO sorry you
came here to-night. Oh, I wish you hadn't. What made you do it?"

"I came," began Ellery, somewhat stiffly, "because I--well, because I
thought it might be a good thing to do. As I said--"

"Yes, I know. But it wasn't. It was so--so--"

"So foolish. Thank you, I'm aware of it. I've heard myself called a
fool already since I left your church. Not that I needed to hear it. I
realize the fact."

There was a bitterness in his tone, unmistakable. And a little laugh
from his companion did not tend to soothe his feelings.

"Thank you," he said. "Perhaps it is funny. I did not find it so. Good
evening."

This was priggish, but it must be borne in mind that John Ellery was
very, very fresh from the theological school, where young divines are
taught to take themselves seriously. He was ashamed of himself as soon
as he said it, which proved that his case was not beyond hope.

The girl detained him as he was turning away.

"I wasn't laughing at that," she said. "I know who called you that--that
name. It was Josiah Badger, and he really is one, you know. I was
thinking of his testimony in meeting and how he called Ky--Abishai--a
pepper shaker. That was ridiculous enough, but it reminded me of
something else about Mr. Pepper, and I HAD to laugh. It wasn't at you,
truly."

So the minister begged her pardon; also he remained where he was, and
heard the drops from the tree patter hollow on his hat.

"I came after you," went on Grace rapidly and with nervous haste,
"because I felt that you ought not to misjudge my uncle for what he said
to-night. He wouldn't have hurt your feelings for the world. He is a
good man and does good to everybody. If you only knew the good he does
do, you wouldn't--you wouldn't DARE think hardly of him."

She stamped her foot in the wet grass a