“When he gets a little older,” said the doctor, shaking over his plateful, “he'll be interested to trace the processes of his father's thought from a guest and half a peck of stewed chicken, to a robin and half a pint of--” “Don't, doctor!” pleaded Mrs. Putney. “He won't have the least trouble if he'll keep to the surface.” Putney laughed impartially, and said: “Well, we'll take the doctor out and weigh him when he gets done. We expected Brother Peck here this evening,” he explained to Dr. Morrell. “You're our sober second thought--Well,” he broke off, looking across the table at his wife with mock anxiety. “Anything wrong about that, Ellen?” “Not as far as I'm concerned, Mrs. Putney,” interposed the doctor. “I'm glad to be here on any terms. Go on, Putney.” “Oh, there isn't anything more. You know how Miss Kilburn here has been round throwing ridicule on Brother Peck, because he wants the shop-hands treated with common decency, and my idea was to get the two together and see how she would feel.” Dr. Morrell laughed at this with what Annie thought was unnecessary malice; but he stopped suddenly, after a glance at her, and Putney went on-- “Brother Peck pleaded another engagement. Said he had to go off into the country to see a sick woman that wasn't expected to live. You don't remember the Merrifields, do you, Annie? Well, it doesn't matter. One of 'em married West, and her husband left her, and she came home here and got a divorce; I got it for her. She's the one. As a consumptive, she had superior attractions for Brother Peck. It isn't a case that admits of jealousy exactly, but it wouldn't matter to Brother Peck anyway. If he saw a chance to do a good action, he'd wade through blood.” “Now look here, Ralph,” said Mrs. Putney, “there's such a thing as letting yourself _too_ loose.” “Well, _gore_, then,” said Putney, buttering himself a biscuit. The boy, who had kept quiet till now, seemed reached by this last touch, and broke into a high, crowing laugh, in which they all joined except his father. “Gore suits Winthy, anyway,” he said, beginning to eat his biscuit. “I met one of the deacons from Brother Peck's last parish, in Boston, yesterday. He asked me if we considered Brother Peck anyways peculiar in Hatboro', and when I said we thought he was a little too luxurious, the deacon came out with a lot of things. The way Brother Peck behaved toward the needy in that last parish of his made it simply uninhabitable to the standard Christian. They had to get rid of him somehow--send him away or kill him. Of course the deacon said they didn't want to _kill_ him.” “Where was his last parish?” asked the doctor. “Down on the Maine coast somewhere. Penobscotport, I believe.” “And was he indigenous there?”