down the road. The expression was not elegant, but it was sincere. He
thought of the girl as he might have thought of an entirely new
species of blossom, with a strictly individual fragrance which he had
encountered in an expedition afield.

After he had left the Black house, there was only a half mile before
he reached the old Andrew Bolton place. The house had been very
pretentious in an ugly architectural period. There were truncated
towers, a mansard roof, hideous dormers, and a reckless outbreak of
perfectly useless bay windows. The house, which was large, stood
aloof from the road, with a small plantation of evergreen trees
before it. It had not been painted for years, and loomed up like the
vaguest shadow of a dwelling even in the brilliant moonlight.
Suddenly Jim caught sight of a tiny swinging gleam of light. It
bobbed along at the height of a man's knee. It was a lantern, which
seemed rather an odd article to be used on such a night. Then Jim
came face to face with the man who carried the lantern, and saw who
he was--Deacon Amos Whittle. To Jim's mind, the man resembled a fox,
skulking along the road, although Deacon Amos Whittle was not
predatory. He was a small, thin, wiry man with a queer swirl of white
whisker, and hopping gait.

He seemed somewhat blinded by his lantern, for he ran full tilt into
Jim, who stood the shock with such firmness that the older man
staggered back, and danced uncertainly to recover his balance. Deacon
Amos Whittle stuttered uncertain remarks, as was his wont when
startled. "It is only Jim Dodge," said Jim. "Guess your lantern sort
of blinded you, Deacon."

Then the lantern almost blinded Jim, for Whittle swung it higher