She smiled and nodded shyly. Then the minister came and shook hands with her, and brought his tired-looking wife to speak to her. She watched them go across the churchyard together, and up the steps of the old parsonage. The minister seemed tired, too, but there was sympathy between the two that seemed to rest them both when they looked at each other and smiled. It touched the girl-wife. Here were two who had walked together, yet who seemed to be agreed, and to be happy in each other’s company. She felt instinctively, from the minister’s face, that he would not have sent his wife away from his home, no matter what she had done. He would not have thought she had done anything wrong in the first place. It came to Dawn that perhaps it had been her father’s quick temper and hasty judgment that had made all the trouble for her mother. She remembered lately an unutterably sad expression about his eyes. Perhaps he was feeling sorry about it, and ashamed. It made the girl have a tenderer feeling for the father she had never really loved. She pitied him that he must live with her step-mother. She had not as yet connected Mrs. Van Rensselaer with her own present predicament. Her main sensations were dislike for her father’s second wife, and thankfulness that she was out of her jurisdiction. It remained for deeper reflection to tell Dawn just how much her step-mother was to blame for her having been married to one man, supposing all the time that he was another. The next morning quite early, Dawn attired herself in her little gray frock and tied her bonnet neatly, then, leaving her bundle in her room, ready to move in case her mission failed, she presented herself at the parsonage and asked to see the minister. She was shown into the study, where the good man sat in a big hair-cloth chair by the open window, reading. He received her kindly and gave her a chair. "I’ve come to gee whether you can help me to find something to do," she began shyly. "My mother is dead, and I must earn my own living. I have relatives to whom I should be a burden, and I have come away so that they will not be troubled with me." She had thought out during the night watches just what to say. The minister looked at her keenly and kindly through his spectacles. Long experience had made him a good judge of character. He saw nothing but guileless innocence in the sweet young face. "What is your name?" he asked, by way of preliminary. Dawn’s face flushed slightly, but she had anticipated this question. "I should like to be called Mary Montgomery," she said shyly. "It is not my real name, but my relatives might be mortified if they should hear of my being at work. They are very proud, and would not like to have their name mixed up with one who works. Besides, if they should hear of my being here this way, they would think that they must come after me and take care of me, and I don’t wish them to. I want to be independent."