"Yes; as I pulled home past the Ferry. I'd been down-stream early, tryin' for eels. On my way back I saw him--over my left shoulder too. He was comin' out o' the Inn by the waterside door, wipin' his mouth: a loose-featured man, with one shoulder higher than t'other, and a hard drinker by his looks." Ruth saddled-up and mounted in silence. Fatally she recognised the old fellow's description; but--was it possible her lover had brought this man to marry them?--this man, whose touch was defilement, to join their hands? If the precisians of Port Nassau had made religion her tragedy, this man had come in, by an after-blow, to turn it into a blasphemous farce. If Ruth had lost Faith, she yet desired good thoughts, to have everything about her pure and holy--and on this day, of all days! Surely Oliver--she had taught herself to call him Oliver--would never misunderstand her so! Why, it was a misunderstanding that went down, down, almost to the roots. _Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder_ . . . but here was cleavage, and from within. Say rather of such sundering. What man could remedy it? _Those whom God hath joined together_--ah, by such hands! It was not possible! In all things her lover had shown himself considerate, tender; guessing, preventing her smallest wish. As she rode she sought back once more to the wellspring of love. Had he not stooped to her as a god, lifted her from the mire? It was not possible. Yet, as she rode, the unconquerable common sense within her kept whispering that this thing _was_ possible. . . . It darkened the sunlight. She rode as one who, having sung carelessly for miles, surmises a dreadful leap close ahead. Still she rode on, less and less sure of herself, and came to the church porch, and alighted. The church was a plain oblong building, homely within to the last degree. The pews were of pitch-pine, the walls and rafters coated with white-wash, some of which had peeled off and lay strewing the floor. A smell of oil filled the air; it was sweet and sickly, and came from the oozings of half a dozen untended lamps. Ornament the place had none, save a decent damask cloth on the Communion table. Oliver Vyell stood by the chancel rail. The rest of the congregation comprised Mr. Trask, seated stiff and solitary in the largest pew, Mrs. Strongtharm, and half a score of children whom Mrs. Strongtharm had collected on the way and against her will. They followed her by habit, after goodies; but just now, though they sat quiet, her reputation was suffering from a transient distrust. (Allurements to piety rarely fell in the path of a New England child; but even he was child enough to suspect them when they occurred.) At the sound of the mare's footsteps they turned their heads, one and all. Mr. Silk, clad in white surplice and nervously turning the pages of the Office by the holy table, faced about also.