“Floyd's done a lot o' good deeds, has he? I've known men to act like angels to set their consciences at rest after conduct that would make the bad place itself turn pink in shame. I know your kind, Nelson Floyd, and a little of you goes a long way.” XXXII MRS. PORTER drove down the village street between the rows of scattered houses till she arrived at a modest cottage with a white paling fence in front and a few stunted flowers. Here she alighted. There was a hitching-post, with an old horseshoe nailed near the top for a hook, and, throwing the reins over it, she went into the yard. Some one came to a window and parted the curtains. It was Hillhouse. He turned and stepped quickly to the door, a startled expression of inquiry on his face. “Come in, come in,” he said. “Really, I wasn't looking for anybody to drop in so early in the day; and this is the first time you've ever called, Sister Porter.” With a cold nod she walked past him into the little white-walled, carpetless hall. “You've got a parlor, haven't you?” she asked, cautiously looking around. “Oh yes; excuse me,” he stammered, and he awkwardly opened a door on the right. “Walk in, walk in. I'm awfully rattled this morning. Seeing you so sudden made me--” “I hope the Marshall family across the street weren't watching as I got out,” she broke in, as she preceded him into the parlor. “People talk so much here, and I wanted to see you privately. Let a woman with a grown daughter go to an unmarried preacher's house and you never hear the last of it.” She sat down in a rocking-chair and looked about her, he thought, with an expression of subdued excitement. The room was most simply furnished. On the floor lay a rag carpet, with rugs of the same material. A cottage organ stood in one corner, and a round, marble-topped table in the centre of the room held a lamp and a plush-covered album. On the white walls hung family portraits, black-and-white enlarged photographs. The window looking towards the street had a green shade and white, stiffly starched lace curtains.. “Your mother and sister--are they in the house?” Mrs. Porter asked. “No,” he answered, standing in front of her. “They went over to McGill's as soon as breakfast was finished. You know their little boy got kicked by a mule yesterday.” “Yes, I heard so, and I'm glad they are not here--though you'd better tell them I came. If you don't, and the Marshalls happen to mention it to them, they might think it strange.” “You wanted to see me alone, then?” Hillhouse put out his stiff, tentative hand and drew a chair to him and sat down in it. “Yes, I'm in trouble--great, great trouble,” the old woman said, her steely glance on his face; “and to tell you the truth, I don't see how I'm going to get around it. I couldn't mention it to any one else but you, not even Nathan nor mother. In fact, you ought to know, for it's bound to worry you, too.”