king, and John Ellery
forebore to mention it. The housekeeper was as faithful as ever in the
performance of her household duties, but her smile had gone and she
was worn and anxious. The minister longed to express his sympathy, but
Keziah had not mentioned Nat's name for months, not since he, Ellery,
gave her the message intrusted to him by the captain before sailing. He
would have liked to ask about Grace, for he knew Mrs. Coffin visited the
Hammond home occasionally, but this, too, he hesitated to do. He heard
from others that the girl was bearing the suspense bravely, that she
refused to give up hope, and was winning the respect of all the thinking
class in Trumet by her courage and patience. Even the most bigoted of
the Regulars, Captain Daniels and his daughter excepted of course, had
come to speak highly of her. "She's a spunky girl," declared Captain
Zeb, with emphasis. "There's nothing of the milk-sop and cry-baby about
her. She's fit to be a sailor's wife, and I only hope Nat's alive to
come back and marry her. He was a durn good feller, too--savin' your
presence, Mr. Ellery--and if he was forty times a Come-Outer I'd say the
same thing. I'm 'fraid he's gone, though, poor chap. As good a seaman
as he was would have fetched port afore this if he was atop of water.
As for Gracie, she's a brick, and a lady, every inch of her. My old
girl went down t'other day to call on her and that's the fust Come-Outer
she's been to see sence there was any. Why don't you go see her, too,
Mr. Ellery? 'Twould be a welcome change from Zeke Bassett and his tribe.
Go ahead! it would be the Almighty's own work and the society'd stand
back of you, all them that's wuth considerin', anyhow."

This was surprising advice from a member of the Regular and was
indicative of the changed feeling in the community, but the minister, of
course, could not take it. He had plunged headlong into his church work,
hoping that it and time would dull the pain of his terrible shock and
disappointment. It had been dulled somewhat, but it was still there, and
every mention of her name revived it.

One afternoon Keziah came into his study, where he was laboring with his
next Sunday sermon, and sat down in the rocking-chair. She had been out
and still wore her bonnet and shawl.

"John," she said, "I ask your pardon for disturbin' you. I know you're
busy."

Ellery laid down his pen. "Never too busy to talk with you, Aunt
Keziah," he observed. "What is it?"