Judith stood on the parsonage piazza; a voice within was unfamiliar, then in a change of tone she recognized something and was reminded of her afternoon at Meadow Centre; that laugh she had heard before, it was not Don—it was—the face at the window looked out into the shadows,—it was Richard King. He was a strong tower; he was safe, like her parsonage life; she would go in and feel at home. No new face or voice would ever come between and keep her away. Across the room, as she discovered by a peep through the curtains, Marion sat with some of her usual pretty work in her hand; Roger was not there. “In the excavations in Babylon,” Mr. King went on in easy continuation of the subject in hand, “a collection of bowls was found, inscribed with adjurations of all sorts of spirits by name, and with indications that could not be mistaken of medicines they once held. You know, that capital R with which the physician heads his prescription, believing it stands for Recipe, in the days of superstition was understood to be an appeal to Jupiter.” “That was consistent,” Marion replied, still bending over her work. “Imagine our physicians writing at the head of a prescription: _In the name of Jesus Christ_.” “As Peter did when he healed the lame man.” “Our old Meadow Brook physician prays with his patients very often; I tell him he leaves nothing for the parson to do.” “Roger says sometimes the doctor has a way of getting nearer our Bensalem people than he has.” “I am not sure of that. They tell the doctor a different kind of trouble. You would be amazed—if you were not the minister’s sister—at the histories people tell me about themselves, and their neighbors.” “I am always delighted that people have a story to tell. When I first came to Bensalem I thought no man, woman, or child, lived a life worth living. Now I know the sweetest stories. Aunt Affy is one, and Nettie Evans, and even her hard-featured mother brims over once in a while with an experience.” The coming back from Babylon to Bensalem brought Judith to the consciousness that she might be considered an eavesdropper; at that instant Roger entered in his shirt-sleeves, remarking: “Let’s be informal, like Wordsworth. He used to take out his teeth evenings when he did not expect callers.” “But you _have_ a caller,” remonstrated Marion, when the laughter ceased. “Yes, and here’s another one,” Roger replied, as Judith walked softly in. “Judith, must I put on my coat? I’ve been potting plants for Marion and I couldn’t afford to soil my coat.” “Yes,” said Judith, who was always on Marion’s side in influencing the Bensalem minister to remember the claims of society. “I wish you had stayed at home. What are you looking so full of news about?” “I have come back—to stay. No one else in the world wants me.” “And we don’t,” declared Roger.