“Say, Ida,” burst out Mr. Gooch, who had been fretting almost audibly, “I’m getting tired of hanging around here waiting for Oliver. Get your things on. We’re going home.”
“Oh, my dear friend,” cried the pastor, “you surely are not going away without saying good-by to Brother Baxter. He will—”
“I’m going away without even saying howdy-do to him,” rasped Mr. Gooch. “Where are your overshoes, Ida?”
At this juncture the sitting-room door was opened, somewhat to the confusion of the two citizens of Rumley, and a small, plump, middle-aged woman, bearing a couple of blankets in her arms, entered the room.
“Hello, Serepty!” cried Mr. Link. “Everything all right?”
Mrs. Grimes surveyed the group. Her pleasant, wholesome face was beaming. Her gaze rested upon the astonishing hat of Mrs. Sage.
“Why, how do you do, Sister Sage. How nice of you to come out on a night like this. Mary will be pleased to hear you’ve been here. Oh, yes, Silas, everything is all right. You can go home. Nobody is going to die. How do you do, Mr. Sage. What a terrible night for you to be out, with that wretched throat of yours. If you’ll wait till I take these blankets out to warm them in the kitchen I will wrap a piece of flannel and a strip of bacon around your throat. It’s the best—”
“Don’t think of it, Sister Grimes. I am quite all right. I thought perhaps I might—ah—cheer Sister Baxter up with a little—ah—spiritual encouragement—er—a prayer of rejoicing—er—a—”
“That’s all been attended to, thank you,” broke in Mrs. Grimes crisply.
“I beg your pardon?”