The housekeeper announced the visitor. “He's as sour as a skimmin' of last week's milk,” she whispered. “Don't be afraid of him, though.” “Oh, I'm not. Show him in.” “All right. Say, Mr. Ellery, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't say anything about your seein' Grace home. That's none of HIS business, either, or anybody else's.” The head of the parish committee stalked into the study and the door closed behind him. A rumble of voices in animated conversation succeeded. Mrs. Coffin went out into the kitchen and resumed her business of making a dried-apple pie. There was a hot fire in the stove and she opened the back door to let in the fresh air. She worked briskly, rolling out the dough, filling the deep dish, and pinking the edges of the upper crust with a fork. She was thinking as she worked, but not of the minister or his visitor. She put the pie in the oven and set the damper. And, as she knelt by the stove, something struck her lightly on the back of the neck. She looked up and about her, but there was no one in sight. Then she picked up the object which had struck her. It was a cranberry, withered and softened by the winter frosts. She looked at the cranberry, then at the open door, and her eyes twinkled. Running quickly to the threshold she peered out. The back yard was, apparently, empty, save for a few hens belonging to near neighbors, and these had stopped scratching for a living and were huddled near the fence. “Hum!” she mused. “You rascal! Eddie Snow, if it's you, I'll be after you in a minute. Just because you're big enough to quit school and drive store wagon is no reason why I can't--Hey? Oh!” She was looking down below the door, which opened outward and was swung partly back on its hinges. From under the door projected a boot, a man's boot and one of ample size. Keziah's cheeks, already red from the heat of the stove, reddened still more. Her lips twitched and her eyes sparkled. “Hum!” she said again. “They say you can tell the Old Scratch by his footprints, even if you can't smell the sulphur. Anyhow, you can tell a Hammond by the size of his boots. Come out from behind that door this minute. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?” The owner of the boot stepped forth from behind the door and seized her by both hands. “Halloo, Keziah!” he cried joyfully. “My, but it's good to see you.” “Halloo, Nat!” said Keziah heartily. “It's kind of good to see you, too.” The rest of him was in keeping with his boots. He was big and broad-shouldered and bearded. His face, above the beard, was tanned to a deep reddish brown, and the corners of his eyes were marked with dozens of tiny wrinkles. He was dressed in blue cloth and wore a wide-brimmed, soft felt hat. He entered the kitchen and tossed the hat into a corner.