“_Now_”—stolid under the implied doubt, or not noticing it—“you reklec’ the Sunday night me ’n you was talkin’ here, ’n’ _he_ come along, an’ I shinned up the tree? I bet”—with more animation than March had ever seen him display before—“he was a-comin’ for a drink then! ’Twas the very night before, when Miss Hetty, she come all the way up to my room, an’ sez she, ‘Homer,’ sez she, ‘Mr. Wayt has done it agin,’ she say. An’ so he had, an’ him a lyin’ on the study floor jes’ as you see him now—an’ Mrs. Wayt a-cryin’ over him. You see she’d b’lieved, sure an’ certain, he’d nuvver do so no more. But _I_ mistrusted them horsephates. _Now_, that very night—Sunday night ’twas, ’n’ me an’ you was a-talkin’ here—as I was a-slidin’ down the tree I kotched inter a hole, an’ somethin’ sort o’ jingled, like glass. I nuvver t’ought no more ’bout it tell jes’ ez I come up to-night an’ see him a-sprawlin’ thar, an’ I smelled the stuff. I’ll jes’ hide ’em in the grass, an’ to-morrow early I’ll bury ’em in the garding. But it’s a quare cupboard, that is.” While talking, he was busy spreading upon the turf a heavy shawl, such as were worn by men, forty years ago. “_Now_—ef you’ll lend a lift to him!” to the wondering observer. The plan was ingenious, but Homer’s dexterity in carrying it out, and the _sangfroid_ he maintained throughout, betokened an amount of practice at which March’s soul recoiled. It was frightfully realistic. Mr. Wayt was laid in the middle of the big plaid; the two ends were knotted tightly upon his chest, inclosing his arms, the other two about his ankles. “I’ll hitch on to the heavy eend,” quoth the bunch of muscle and bone March had begun to admire. “Me bein’ useter to it nor what you be. You take holt on his feet.” In such style the stately saint was borne up the back steps and laid upon the settee in the parsonage hall. Mrs. Wayt was upon the porch. Her first words gave one of the bearers his cue. “Oh, Mr. Gilchrist! This is dreadful! And he seemed so well at dinner time! The heat often affects him seriously. He had a sunstroke some years ago, and every summer he feels the effects of it. Lay him down here and rest before taking him upstairs. There. Thank you.” While she undid and removed the clerical cravat and collar from his throat, March straightened his spine and looked around for Hetty. The house was as still as a grave. The front door was closed; the rooms on both sides of the hall were dark and silent. It was Thursday night, the universal “evening out” for Fairhill servants. March recollected it in the mechanical way in which one thinks of trifles at important junctures. He was glad—mechanically—that Mary Ann was not there to carry the tale of Mr. Wayt’s fainting fit, or semi-sunstroke, or whatever name his wife chose to put to it, to Mrs. Gilchrist. He was beginning to ask himself what he should say at home of what he had done with himself between nine and ten o’clock that evening.