individuals packed into one carriage are hard to overlook anywhere. As
Gaius, with the youngest in his arms, passed in at the church door, John
Ellery passed out of the parsonage gate. The last bell clanged its final
stroke, the vibrations ceased, the rustle of skirts and the sounds of
decorous coughing subsided and were succeeded by the dry rattle of the
hymn-book pages, the organ, presented by Captain Elkanah and played by
his daughter, uttered its preliminary groan, the service began.

Outside the spring breeze stirred the budding silver-leafs, the distant
breakers grumbled, the crows in the pines near Captain Eben Hammond's
tavern cawed ribald answers to the screaming gulls perched along the top
of the breakwater. And seated on one of the hard benches of the little
Come-Outer chapel, Grace Van Horne heard her "Uncle Eben," who, as
usual, was conducting the meeting, speak of "them who, in purple and
fine linen, with organs and trumpets and vain shows, are gathered
elsewhere in this community to hear a hired priest make a mock of the
gospel." (A-MEN!)

But John Ellery, the "hired priest," knew nothing of this. He did know,
however, that he was the center of interest for his own congregation,
the people among whom he had been called to labor. Their praise or
criticism meant everything to him; therefore he preached for dear life.

And Keziah Coffin, in the third pew from the back, watched him intently,
her mind working in sympathetic unison with his. She was not one to
be greatly influenced by first impressions, but she had been favorably
impressed by this young fellow, and had already begun to feel that sense
of guardianship and personal responsibility which, later on, was to make
Captain Zebedee Mayo nickname the minister "Keziah's Parson."