"They've hunted everywhere, gran'ther. They've rode all over the county; and after the celebration, they're going to—dr—drag the pond!"
"Well, I guess I can go out o' the county if I want to," responded Nicholas calmly. "I come across a sheet in them rec'ids that told about a pewter communion set over to Rocky Ridge, an' I've found part on 't in a tavern there. Who put 'em up to all this work? Your father?"
"No," sobbed Mary. "The minister."
"The minister? What's he want?"
"He's got to write an address, and he wants you to tell him what to say."
Then, in the darkness of the room, a slow smile stole over Nicholas Oldfield's face, but his voice remained quite grave.
"Does, does he?" he remarked. "Well, he ain't the fust pa'son that's needed a lift; but he's the fust one ever I knew to ask for it. I've got nothin' for 'em, Mary. I come home to wind up the clocks; but I ain't goin' to stand by a town that'll swaller a Memory-o'-Me timekeeper an' murder the old bell. You can say I was here, an' they needn't go to muddyin' up the ponds; but as to their doin's, they can carry 'em out as they may. I've no part nor lot in 'em."
Mary, in the weakness of her kind, was wiser than she knew. She drew her arms about his neck, and clung to him the closer. All this talk of plots and counter-plots seemed very trivial now that she had him back; and being only a child, wearied with care and watching, she went fast asleep on his shoulder. Nicholas felt tired too; but he thought he had only dozed a little when he opened his eyes on a gleam of morning, and saw the doctor come striding into the yard.
"Your door's open!" called the doctor. "You must be at home to callers. Morning, Mary! Either of you sick?"
Mary, abashed, drew herself away, and slipped into the sitting-room, a hand upon her tumbled hair; the doctor, wise in his honesty, slashed at the situation without delay.