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“I know where she is,” said Isabel unhappily. “She’s as well on’t as she can be, under the circumstances. There’s on’y one thing you could do. If you should be willin’ to keep it dark t you’ve seen me, I should be real beholden to ye. You know there ain’t no time to call in the neighborhood, an’ such things make talk, an’ all. An’ if you don’t speak out to Isabel, so much the better. Poor creatur’, she’s got enough to bear without that!” Her voice dropped meltingly in the keenness of her sympathy for the unfortunate girl who, embarrassed enough before, had deliberately set for herself another snare. “I feel for Isabel,” she continued, in the hope of impressing him with the necessity for silence and inaction. “I do feel for her! Oh, gracious me! What’s that?”

A decided rap had sounded at the front door. The parson rose also, amazed at her agitation.

“Somebody knocked,” he said. “Shall I go to the door?”

“Oh, not yet, not yet!” cried Isabel, clasping her hands under her cashmere shawl. “Oh, what shall I do?”

Her natural voice had asserted itself, but, strangely enough, the parson did not comprehend. The entire scene was too bewildering. There came a second knock. He stepped toward the door, but Isabel darted in front of him. She forgot her back breadth, and even through that dim twilight the scarlet of her gown shone ruddily out. She placed herself before the door.

“Don’t you go!” she entreated hoarsely. “Let me think what I can say.”

Then the parson had his first inkling that the strange visitor must be mad. He wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and the idea speedily coupled itself with Isabel’s strange disappearance. He stepped forward and grasped her arm, trembling under the cashmere shawl.

“Woman,” he demanded sternly, “what have you done with Isabel North?”

Isabel was thinking; but the question, twice repeated, brought her to herself. She began to laugh, peal on peal of hysterical mirth; and the parson, still holding her arm, grew compassionate.

“Poor soul!” said he soothingly. “Poor soul! sit down here by the stove and be calm–be calm!”

Isabel was overcome anew.

“Oh, it isn’t so!” she gasped, finding breath. “I’m not crazy. Just let me be!”

She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again. Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. “Who’s there?” she called.

“It’s your aunt Mary Ellen,” came a voice from the darkness. “Open the door.”

“O my soul!” whispered Isabel to herself. “Wait a minute!” she continued. “Only a minute!”

She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door. The act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey in such awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to be refused. Isabel felt equal to doing it.

“Now, look here,” said she rapidly; “you stand right there while I take off these things. Don’t you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don’t you speak!” Bonnet, false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile.

“Isabel!” gasped the parson.

“Keep still!” she commanded. “Here! fold this shawl!”

The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue chest, and packed the articles hastily within. “Here!” said she; “toss me the shawl. Now if you say one word–Oh, parson, if you only will keep still, I’ll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!” And leaving him standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door.

“Well,” said aunt Mary Ellen, stepping in, “I’m afraid your hinges want greasing. How do you do, Isabel? How do you do?” She put up her face and kissed her niece. Aunt Mary Ellen was so pretty, so round, so small, that she always seemed timid, and did the commonest acts of life with a gentle grace. “I heard voices,” she said, walking into the sitting-room. “Sadie here?”