“Will you come to see Mrs. Coffin?” he asked.
“No, no. You know I can't. Good-by. The sunset is beautiful, isn't it?”
“Beautiful, indeed.”
“Yes. I—I think the sunsets from this point are the finest I have ever seen. I come here every Sunday afternoon to see them.”
This remark was given merely to cover embarrassment, but it had an unexpected effect.
“You DO?” cried the minister. The next moment he was alone. Grace Van Horne had vanished in the gloom of the pine thickets.
It was a strange John Ellery who walked slowly back along the path, one that Keziah herself would not have recognized, to say nothing of Captain Elkanah and the parish committee. The dignified parson, with the dignified walk and calm, untroubled brow, was gone, and here was an absent-minded young fellow who stumbled blindly along, tripping over roots and dead limbs, and caring nothing, apparently, for the damage to his Sunday boots and trousers which might result from the stumbles. He saw nothing real, and heard nothing, not even the excited person who, hidden behind the bayberry bush, hailed him as he passed. It was not until this person rushed forth and seized him by the arm that he came back to the unimportant affairs of this material earth.
“Why! Why, Mr. Pepper!” he gasped. “Are you here? What do you want?”
“Am I here?” panted Kyan. “Ain't I been here for the last twenty minutes waitin' to get a chance at you? Ain't I been chasin' you from Dan to Beersheby all this dummed—excuse me—afternoon? Oh, my godfreys mighty!”
“Why, what's the matter?”