“Now, they are a kind of a mystery about that—why they wa’n’t throwed out with the rest. Your ma’s sick abed—she ain’t ever been peart since the night your pa’s house was fired and they had to walk in—but that ain’t the reason they wa’n’t throwed out. They put out others sicker. They flung families where every one was sick out into that slough. I guess what’s left of ’em wouldn’t be a supper-spell for a bunch of long-billed mosquitoes. But one of them milishy captains was certainly partial to your folks for some reason. They was let to stay in Phin Daggin’s house till you come.” “And Prudence—the Corsons—Miss Prudence Corson?” “Oh, ho! So she’s the one, is she? Now that reminds me, mebbe I can guess the cute of that captain’s partiality. That girl’s been kind of lookin’ after your pa and ma, and that same milishy captain’s been kind of lookin’ after the girl. She got him to let her folks go to Springfield.” “But that’s the wrong way.” “Well, now, I don’t want to spleen, but I never did believe Vince Corson was anything more’n a hickory Saint—and there’s been a lot of talk—but you get yours from the girl. If I ain’t been misled, she’s got some ready for you.” “Bishop, will there be a way for us to get into the temple, for her to be sealed to me? I’ve looked forward to that, you know. It would be hard to miss it.” “The mob’s got the temple, even if you got the girl. There’s a verse writ in charcoal on the portal:— “‘Large house, tall steeple, Silly priests, deluded people.’ “That’s how it is for the temple, and the mob’s bunked there. But the girl may have changed her mind, too.” The young man’s expression became wistful and gentle, yet serenely sure. “I guess you never knew Prudence at all well,” he said. “But come, can’t we go to them? Isn’t Phin Daggin’s house near?” “You may git there all right. But I don’t want _my_ part taken out of the tree of life jest yet. I ain’t aimin’ to show myself none. Hark!” From outside came the measured, swinging tramp of men. “Come see how the Lord is proving us—and step light.” They tiptoed through the other rooms to the front of the house. “There’s a peek-hole I made this morning—take it. I’ll make me one here. Don’t move the curtain.” They put their eyes to the holes and were still. The quick, rhythmic, scuffling tread of feet drew nearer, and a company of armed men marched by with bayonets fixed. The captain, a handsome, soldierly young fellow, glanced keenly from right to left at the houses along the line of march.