Trumet in a fog;a fog blown in during the night by the wind from the wide Atlantic.So wet and heavy that one might taste the salt in it.So thick that houses along the main road were but dim shapes behind its gray drapery,and only the gates and fences of the front yards were plainly in evidence to the passers-by.The beach plum and bayberry bushes on the dunes were spangled with beady drops.The pole on Cannon Hill,where the beacon was hoisted when the packet from Boston dropped anchor in the bay,was shiny and slippery.The new weathervane,a gilded whale,presented to the Regularchurch by Captain Zebedee Mayo,retired whaler,swam in a sea of cloud.The lichened eaves of the little Come-Outerchapel dripped at sedate intervals.The brick walk leading to the door of Captain Elkanah Daniels's fine residence held undignified puddles in its hollows.And,through the damp stillness,the muttered growl of the surf,three miles away at the foot of the sandy bluffs by the lighthouse,sounded ominously.

Directly opposite Captain Elkanah's front gate,on the other side of the main road,stood the little story-and-a-half house,also the captain's property,which for fourteen years had been tenanted by Mrs.Keziah Coffin and her brother,Solomon Hall,the shoemaker.

But Solomon had,the month before,given up his fight with debt and illness and was sleeping quietly in Trumet's most populous center,the graveyard.And Keziah,left alone,had decided that the rent and living expenses were more than her precarious earnings as a seamstress would warrant,and,having bargained with the furniture dealer in Wellmouth for the sale of her household effects,was now busy getting them ready for the morrow,when the dealer's wagon was to call.She was going to Boston,where a distant and condescending rich relative had interested himself to the extent of finding her a place as sewing woman in a large tailoring establishment.

The fog hung like a wet blanket over the house and its small yard,where a few venerable pear trees,too conservative in their old age to venture a bud even though it was almost May,stood bare and forlorn.The day was dismal.The dismantled dining room,its tables and chairs pushed into a corner,and its faded ingrain carpet partially stripped from the floor,was dismal,likewise.

Considering all things,one might have expected Keziah herself to be even more dismal.But,to all outward appearances,she was not.

A large portion of her thirty-nine years of life had been passed under a wet blanket,so to speak,and she had not permitted the depressing covering to shut out more sunshine than was absolutely necessary.If you can't get cream,you might as well learn to love your sasser of skim milk,said practical Keziah.

She was on her knees,her calico dress sleeves,patched and darned,but absolutely clean,rolled back,uncovering a pair of plump,strong arms,a saucer of tacks before her,and a tack hammer with a claw head in her hand.She was taking up the carpet.Grace Van Horne,Captain Eben Hammond's ward,who had called to see if there was anything she might do to help,was removing towels,tablecloths,and the like from the drawers in a tall high-boy,folding them and placing them in an old and battered trunk.The pair had been discussing the subject which all Trumet had discussed for three weeks,namely,the callingto the pastorate of the Regularchurch of the Rev.John Ellery,the young divinity student,who was to take the place of old Parson Langley,minister in the parish for over thirty years.Discussion in the village had now reached a critical point,for the Reverend John was expected by almost any coach.In those days,the days of the late fifties,the railroad down the Cape extended only as far as Sandwich;passengers made the rest of their journey by stage.Many came direct from the city by the packet,the little schooner,but Mr.Ellery had written that he should probably come on the coach.

They say he's very nice-looking,remarked Miss Van Horne soberly,but with a MISCHIEVOUS glance under her dark lashes at Keziah.The lady addressed paused long enough to transfer several tacks from the floor to the saucer,and then made answer.

Humph!she observed.A good many years ago I saw a theater show up to Boston.Don't be shocked;those circumstances we hear so much tell of--the kind you can't control--have kept me from goin' to theaters much,even if I wanted to.But I did see this entertainment,and a fool one 'twas,too,all singin'instead of talkin'--op'ra,I believe they called it.Well,as I started to say,one of the leadin'folks in it was the Old Harry himself,and HE was pretty good-lookin'.Grace laughed,even though she had been somewhat shocked.

Why,Aunt Keziah!she exclaimed--those who knew Keziah Coffin best usually called her aunt,though real nephews and nieces she had none--why,Aunt Keziah!What do you mean by comparing the--the person you just mentioned with a MINISTER!Oh,I wasn't comparinem;I'll leave that for you Come-Outers to do.Drat this carpet!Seems's if I never saw such long tacks;Ido believe whoever put 'em down drove 'em clean through the center of the earth and let the Chinymen clinch 'em on t'other side.Ihaul up a chunk of the cellar floor with every one.Ah,hum!with a sigh,I cal'late they ain't any more anxious to leave home than I am.But,far's the minister's concerned,didn't I hear of your Uncle Eben sayin'in prayer meetin'only a fortni't or so ago that all hands who wa'n't Come-Outers were own children to Satan?