Nell led the way imperturbably around to the back door of the shack. This door was open and a thin blue haze—odorous and appetizing—floated out of the kitchen. “Just getting a nice breakfast for you, honey,” said Mother Tubbs, filling the doorway and seeing Nell first of all. “Now, if only Sam would come along—Is _that_ Sam? He ain’t dead, is he?” “Only dead drunk,” said Nell in scorn. “Where shall I put him?” asked Hunt quietly. “Well, I reckon it don’t much matter. You can drop him down anywhere, mister. I’ll fetch a dish-pan o’ water and sluice him down when I get a chance. But I can’t let them cakes sp’ile.” Then she saw and recognized the parson’s face, for Mother Tubbs had been at the Wild Rose Hotel the day before when the stagecoach had arrived. “Goodness me! I declared, Mister—er—Brother Hunt, this _is_ good of ye.” Nell stared. The note of respect in Mother Tubbs’ voice revealed in a flash Hunt’s identity to the cabaret singer. “I am sartain sure obliged to you,” went on the old woman. “Nell Blossom never could have got him home alone.” Hunt had lowered her husband to a seat on the porch floor and propped his back against a post. “Sleeping like a baby, ain’t he? Well, he can stay thataway till after Nell has her breakfast.” Hunt was not giving her his attention. The name “Nell Blossom” had revealed to him instantly the familiarity of the girl’s description. This was the golden-haired, blue-eyed, high-spirited beauty Joe Hurley had written about—the girl who could really sing. They stared at each other while the old woman went back to her cakes. Nell was obviously shifting the gears of her opinion about this stranger. He, a parson? No lunger, this husky six-footer! “Mebbe you ain’t acquainted,” Mother Tubbs said, bustling back from the stove. “Nell Blossom is a-living with me and has been doing so—off and on—for more than three years. Ever since her pa, old Henry Blossom, up and died. She’s a singer, Nell is—the sweetest you ever heard, Brother Hunt. I’m hoping, when you get to holding meetings, that we can get her to sing in the choir.” Hunt bowed, smiling, to the girl. Her expression of countenance was no less forbidding than before. She offered him no encouragement. “Won’t you stop for breakfast with me and Nell, Brother Hunt?” went on the hospitable old woman. “I always try to have something hot and tasty for Nell when she comes home after her night’s work.” Nell started—was it angrily? She opened her lips to speak, then shut them in a straight, red line. In any case, Hunt caught the significance of her attitude of objection, had he been tempted to accept the old woman’s hearty invitation. “Not this morning, Mrs.—er—Tubbs, is it? Sister Tubbs? I am glad to have met you.” He met her huge hand with a warm clasp of his own. “When we get started here, I am sure I can depend on your aid and good wishes?”