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“No, no!” cried Mary Ellen, in bitterness of entreaty.

“And then I read the sermon to you under the pines, and you stopped sewing, and looked off into the trees; and you said ’twas beautiful. But I carried it to old Parson Sibley that night, and I can see just how he looked sitting there in his study, with his great spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and his hand drumming on a book. He had the dictionary put in a certain place on his table because he found he’d got used to drumming on the Bible, and he was a very particular man. And when I got through reading the sermon, his face wrinkled all up, though he didn’t laugh out loud, and he came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘William,’ says he, ‘you go home and write a doctrinal sermon, the stiffest you can. This one’s about a girl. You might give it to Mary Ellen North for a wedding-present.'”

The parson had grown almost gay under the vivifying influence of memory. But Mary Ellen did not smile.

“Yes,” she repeated softly, “I remember.”

“And then I laughed a little, and got out of the study the best way I could, and ran over to you to tell you what he said. And I left the sermon in your work-basket. I’ve often wished, in the light of what came afterwards–I’ve often wished I’d kept it. Somehow ‘twould have brought me nearer to you.”

It seemed as if she were about to rise from her chair, but she quieted herself and dulled the responsive look upon her face.

“Mary Ellen,” the parson burst forth, “I know how I took what came on us the very next week, but I never knew how you took it. Should you just as lieves tell me?”

She lifted her head until it held a noble pose. Her eyes shone brilliantly, though indeed they were doves’ eyes.

“I’ll tell you,” said she “I couldn’t have told you ten years ago,–no, nor five! but now it’s an old woman talking to an old man. I was given to understand you were tired of me, and too honorable to say so. I don’t know what tale was carried to you”–

“She said you’d say ‘yes’ to that rich fellow in Sudleigh, if I’d give you a chance!”

“I knew ’twas something as shallow as that. Well, I’ll tell you how I took it. I put up my head and laughed. I said, ‘When William Bond wants to break with me, he’ll say so.’ And the next day you did say so.”

The parson wrung his hands in an involuntary gesture of appeal.

“Minnie! Minnie!” he cried, “why didn’t you save me? What made you let me be a fool?”

She met his gaze with a tenderness so great that the words lost all their sting.

“You always were, William,” she said quietly. “Always rushing at things like Job’s charger, and having to rush back again. Never once have I read that without thinking of you. That’s why you fixed up an angel out of poor little Isabel.”

The parson made a fine gesture of dissent. He had forgotten Isabel.

“Do you want to know what else I did?” Her voice grew hard and unfamiliar. “I’ll tell you. I went to my sister Eliza, and I said: ‘Some way or another, you’ve spoilt my life. I’ll forgive you just as soon as I can–maybe before you die, maybe not. You come with me!’ and I went up garret, where she kept the chest with things in it that belonged to them that had died. There it sets now. I stood over it with her. ‘I’m going to put my dead things in here,’ I said. If you touch a finger to ’em, I’ll get up in meeting and tell what you’ve done. I’m going to put in everything left from what you’ve murdered; and every time you come here, you’ll remember you were a murderer.’ I frightened her. I’m glad I did. She’s dead and gone, and I’ve forgiven her; but I’m glad now!”