The girl detained him as he was turning away. “I wasn't laughing at that,” she said. “I know who called you that--that name. It was Josiah Badger, and he really is one, you know. I was thinking of his testimony in meeting and how he called Ky--Abishai--a pepper shaker. That was ridiculous enough, but it reminded me of something else about Mr. Pepper, and I HAD to laugh. It wasn't at you, truly.” So the minister begged her pardon; also he remained where he was, and heard the drops from the tree patter hollow on his hat. “I came after you,” went on Grace rapidly and with nervous haste, “because I felt that you ought not to misjudge my uncle for what he said to-night. He wouldn't have hurt your feelings for the world. He is a good man and does good to everybody. If you only knew the good he does do, you wouldn't--you wouldn't DARE think hardly of him.” She stamped her foot in the wet grass as she said it. She was evidently in earnest. But Ellery was not in the mood to be greatly impressed by Eben Hammond's charity or innate goodness. The old tavern keeper's references to himself were too fresh in his mind. “False prophet” and “worker of iniquity!” “I'm not judging your uncle,” he declared. “It seemed to me that the boot was on the other leg.” “I know, but you do judge him, and you mustn't. You see, he thought you had come to make fun of him--and us. Some of the Regular people do, people who aren't fit to tie his shoes. And so he spoke against you. He'll be sorry when he thinks it over. That's what I came to tell you. I ask your pardon for--for him.” “Why--why, that's all right. I think I understood--” “I'm not asking it because he's a Come-Outer and you're a Regular minister. He isn't ashamed of his religion. Neither am I. I'm a Come-Outer, too.” “Yes. I--I supposed you were.” “Yes, I am. There, good night, Mr. Ellery. All I ask is that you don't think too hardly of uncle. He didn't mean it.” She turned away now, and it was the minister who detained her. “I've been thinking,” he said slowly, for in his present state of mind it was a hard thing to say, “that perhaps I ought to apologize, too. I'm afraid I did disturb your service and I'm sorry. I meant well, but--What's that? Rain?” There was no doubt about it; it was rain and plenty of it. It came in a swooping downpour that beat upon the trees and bushes and roared upon the roof of the chapel. The minister hurriedly raised his umbrella. “Here!” he cried, “let me--Miss Van Horne! Where are you?” The answer came from a short distance down the “Turn-off.” “Good night,” called the girl. “I must run.” Evidently, she WAS running. Therefore the young man ran after her. He caught up with her in a moment, in spite of some stumbles over the rough road. “Here!” he commanded, “you must take the umbrella. Really, you must. You haven't one and you'll be wet through.” She pushed the umbrella aside.