He stepped off the platform, across the road, out of the way of homeward-bound Come-Outers, and stood there, thinking. The fog was as heavy and wet as ever; in fact, it was almost a rain. The wind was blowing hard from the northwest. The congregation dispersed in chattering groups, their lanterns dipping and swinging like fireflies. The chatter dealt entirely with one subject--himself. He heard his name mentioned at least twenty times. Out of the gusty, dripping blackness came Mr. Badger's voice. “By time!” crowed Josiah, “he was took down a few p-p-pup-pegs, wa'n't he! My! how Eben did g-gi-gi-give it to him. He looked toler'ble white under the gills when he riz up to heave out his s-s-sus-sassy talk. And foolish, too. I cal'late I won't be the only town fuf-fuf-fool from now on. He! he!” The noises died away in the distance. Within the chapel the tramp of heavy boots sounded as the lights were blown out, one by one. The minister frowned, sighed, and turned homeward. It is not pleasant to be called a fool, even by a recognized member of the fraternity. He had taken but a few steps when there was a rustle in the wet grass behind him. “Mr. Ellery,” whispered a voice, “Mr. Ellery, may I speak to you just a moment?” He wheeled in surprise. “Why! why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed. “Is it you?” “Mr. Ellery,” she began, speaking hurriedly and in a low voice, “I--I felt that I must say a word to you before--” She paused and glanced back at the chapel. Ezekiel Bassett, the janitor, having extinguished the last lamp, had emerged from the door and was locking up. In another moment he clumped past them in the middle of the road, the circle of light from his lantern just missing them as they stood in the grass at the side under the hornbeam and blackberry bushes. He was alone; Sukey B. had gone on before, other and younger masculine escort having been providentially provided. Mr. Bassett was out of hearing before Grace finished her sentence. The minister was silent, waiting and wondering. “I felt,” she said, “that I must see you and--explain. I am SO sorry you came here to-night. Oh, I wish you hadn't. What made you do it?” “I came,” began Ellery, somewhat stiffly, “because I--well, because I thought it might be a good thing to do. As I said--” “Yes, I know. But it wasn't. It was so--so--” “So foolish. Thank you, I'm aware of it. I've heard myself called a fool already since I left your church. Not that I needed to hear it. I realize the fact.” There was a bitterness in his tone, unmistakable. And a little laugh from his companion did not tend to soothe his feelings. “Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps it is funny. I did not find it so. Good evening.” This was priggish, but it must be borne in mind that John Ellery was very, very fresh from the theological school, where young divines are taught to take themselves seriously. He was ashamed of himself as soon as he said it, which proved that his case was not beyond hope.