red, crushing a
leaf of lemon verbena between his fingers and sniffing the resultant
perfume with thoughtful appreciation. He was almost as enthusiastic a
horticulturist as Miss Abigail, and stood high in her good graces as one
of the few individuals of sense among the summer colony. She faced him
therefore in a peaceable, friendly mood, glad of the diversion from her
thoughts, and quite unprepared for the shock he was about to give her.

"I'm on my way to interview the trustees of the church," he remarked. "It
is curious that all but one of them now really live in Johnsonville,
although they still keep their nominal residence here."

"What do you want to see _them_ for?" asked Miss Abigail, with a bluntness
caused in part by her wincing at his casual statement of an unwelcome fact.

"Why, I've had what I flatter myself is an inspiration for everyone
concerned. I've got a big commission for part of the decorations of the
new State House in Montana, and I need a very large studio. It occurred to
me the other day that instead of building I'd save time by buying the old
church here and using that."

Miss Abigail leaned against the palings. "_Buy our church!_" she said, and
every letter was a capital.

"I didn't know you were a member," said the sculptor, a little surprised.
"You don't often go."

Miss Abigail shouted out, "Why, my grandfather was minister in that
church!" Mr. Horton received this as a statement of fact. "Indeed? I
didn't realize the building was so old. I wonder if the foundations are
still in good shape." He went on, explanatorily, "I really don't know why
I hadn't thought of the plan before. The number who attend church in that
great barn of a place could easily be put into someone's parlor, and save
the trustees the expense of heating. One of them whom I saw the other day
seemed quite pleased with the notion--said they'd been at a loss to know
what to do about conditions here." He glanced at his watch. "Well, I must
be going or I shall miss the train to Johnsonville. Thank you very much
for the hint about the blight."

He went down the street, humming a cheerful little tune.

To Miss Abigail it was the bugle call of "Forward, charge!" She had been,
for the last few weeks, a little paler than usual. Now her powerful old
face flushed to an angry red. She dashed her trowel to the garden path and
clenched her fists. "What's coming to Greenford!" she shouted. It was no
longer a wail of despair. It wa