Isabel was overcome anew.
"Oh, it isn't so!" she gasped, finding breath. "I'm not crazy. Just let me be!"
She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again. Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. "Who's there?" she called.
"It's your aunt Mary Ellen," came a voice from the darkness. "Open the door."
"O my soul!" whispered Isabel to herself. "Wait a minute!" she continued. "Only a minute!"
She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door. The act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey in such awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to be refused. Isabel felt equal to doing it.
"Now, look here," said she rapidly; "you stand right there while I take off these things. Don't you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don't you speak!" Bonnet, false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile.
"Keep still!" she commanded. "Here! fold this shawl!"
The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue chest, and packed the articles hastily within. "Here!" said she; "toss me the shawl. Now if you say one word—Oh, parson, if you only will keep still, I'll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!" And leaving him standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door.