The deacon had not returned from his work, and Wilford did not see him until he came suddenly upon him, seated in the wood-shed door, resting after the labor of the day. “The young man was welcome to Silverton,” he said, “but he must excuse him from visitin’ much that night, for the cows was to milk and the chores to do, as he never kep’ no boy.” The “chores” were done at last, just as the clock pointed to half-past eight, the hour for family worship. Unaccustomed as Wilford was to such things, he felt the influence of the deacon’s voice as he read from the word of God, and involuntarily found himself kneeling when Katy knelt, noticing the deacon’s grammar it is true, but still listening patiently to the lengthy prayer, which included him together with the rest of mankind. There was no chance of seeing Katy alone, that night, and so full two hours before his usual custom Wilford retired to the little room to which the deacon conducted him, saying, as he put down the lamp, “You’ll find it pretty snug quarters, I guess, for such a close, muggy night as this.” And truly they were snug quarters, Wilford thought, as he surveyed the dimensions of the room; but there was no alternative, and a few moments found him in the centre of the two feather beds, neither Helen nor Katy having discovered the addition made by Aunt Betsy, and which came near being the death of the New York guest. To sleep was impossible, and never for a moment did Wilford lose his consciousness or forget to accuse himself of being an idiot for coming into that heathenish neighborhood after a wife when in New York there were so many girls ready and waiting for him. “I’ll go back to-morrow morning,” he said, striking a match he consulted his Railway Guide to find when the first train passed Silverton, feeling comforted to know that only a few hours intervened between him and freedom.