turned to the right, into the way called locally "Hammond's Turn-off."
A short distance down the "Turn-off" stood a small, brown-shingled
building, its windows alight. Opposite its door, on the other side of
the road, grew a spreading hornbeam tree surrounded by a cluster of
swamp blackberry bushes. In the black shadow of the hornbeam Mr. Ellery
stood still. He was debating in his mind a question: should he or should
he not enter that building?

As he stood there, groups of people emerged from the fog and darkness
and passed in at the door. Some of them he had seen during his fortnight
in Trumet. Others were strangers to him. A lantern danced and wabbled up
the "Turn-off" from the direction of the bay shore and the packet wharf.
It drew near, and he saw that it was carried by an old man with long
white hair and chin beard, who walked with a slight limp. Beside him was
a thin woman wearing a black poke bonnet and a shawl. In the rear of
the pair came another woman, a young woman, judging by the way she was
dressed and her lithe, vigorous step. The trio halted on the platform of
the building. The old man blew out the lantern. Then he threw the door
open and a stream of yellow light poured over the group.

The young woman was Grace Van Horne. The minister recognized her at
once. Undoubtedly, the old man with the limp was her guardian, Captain
Eben Hammond, who, by common report, had spoken of him, Ellery, as a
"hired priest."

The door closed. A few moments thereafter the sound of a squeaky
melodeon came from within the building. It wailed and quavered and
groaned. Then, with a suddenness that was startling, came the first
verse of a hymn, sung with tremendous enthusiasm: