That evening Susan came running home excitedly, having learned that one of the elders had asked that a meeting be called to consider Dick's case, and that the young pastor had very promptly and very emphatically vetoed the proceeding. It seemed that Bruce had heard of the move and persuaded his father not to support it, after a stormy scene in which he had threatened to resign his own membership if they moved against Terry. Ellis looked long at Terry: "Nothing small about Bruce, Dick. Some fellows, under the circumstances--all the circumstances--might have let you have it to the hilt." Terry smiled gravely. "Good old Bruce," he said. He left the room, slowly, and sat alone in the library. It had struck deep, that even one God-fearing but not God-loving old man should think him unfit to sit in the church in which his father and mother had been married, from which they had been carried side by side for their long rest. It was midnight when he went up the broad staircase to his room. The following afternoon he dropped in to see Father Jennings, the gentle little priest who had been beloved by two generations of all denominations--and those of none. Terry loved the old study, which in forty years had taken on something of the priest's character. It was a comfortable room; cheerful in its wide windows, warm with a bright hearthfire, and well worn with long years of service. Terry had found friendship and counsel here since his boyhood, had been one of the procession that passed through the door in search of wisdom and cheer. All the gossip of the town came to the priest: he knew of Terry's hunting trip and of the climax which had scandalized the sterner factions of the community. He was of those who knew Terry best, and entertained no misgivings about the state of his immortal soul. They talked fitfully, as intimate friends do. The old man knew that it was worry over the town's harsh reaction to the Sunday fox hunt that had brought Terry to him. He broached the subject. "Dick, I have wanted to see you since Sunday morning. I had a question to ask you nobody else could answer." As Terry turned to him with somber mien he concluded, his eyes twinkling: "I wanted to know if it was the best fox ever!" And that was all, though Terry stayed to sup with him. Till nine o'clock they sat before the fire, the priest in a worn rocker drawn up close to the hearth: the single log burning glorified his fine old face as he placidly rocked and pondered.