you had come to make fun of him--and us. Some of the Regular people do,
people who aren't fit to tie his shoes. And so he spoke against you.
He'll be sorry when he thinks it over. That's what I came to tell you. I
ask your pardon for--for him."

"Why--why, that's all right. I think I understood--"

"I'm not asking it because he's a Come-Outer and you're a Regular
minister. He isn't ashamed of his religion. Neither am I. I'm a
Come-Outer, too."

"Yes. I--I supposed you were."

"Yes, I am. There, good night, Mr. Ellery. All I ask is that you don't
think too hardly of uncle. He didn't mean it."

She turned away now, and it was the minister who detained her.

"I've been thinking," he said slowly, for in his present state of mind
it was a hard thing to say, "that perhaps I ought to apologize, too.
I'm afraid I did disturb your service and I'm sorry. I meant well,
but--What's that? Rain?"

There was no doubt about it; it was rain and plenty of it. It came in
a swooping downpour that beat upon the trees and bushes and roared upon
the roof of the chapel. The minister hurriedly raised his umbrella.

"Here!" he cried, "let me--Miss Van Horne! Where are you?"

The answer came from a short distance down the "Turn-off."