"Oh, I'm so glad!" sighed Mary Rafferty sinking into a chair, "Jim
thinks the sun rises and sets in Mark Carter. They were kids together
you know. He says people don't know Mark. And he said if they turned
Mark down at the church now, if they didn't stand by him in his
trouble, he had no more use for their religion!"
"Don't you believe it, Mary Rafferty! Jim Rafferty loves the very
ground the meenister walks on!"
"What was that?" exclaimed Jane Duncannon running to the side window.
"A strange car! Mary, come here! Is that the Chief of Police from
Economy?"
Mary darted to the window followed by the elder woman: "Yes, it is!" she exclaimed drawing back aghast, "You don't
suppose he's going to Carter's? He wouldn't do that would he?"
"He huz to do his dooty, doesn't he?" mused Christie, "But thot's not
sayin' he loikes it, child!"
"Well, he might find a way not to frighten his mother--!"
Mrs. Duncannon stretched her neck to see if he was really stopping at
the parsonage, and Christie murmured: "Perhaps he will."
The little group lingered a moment, till Mary bethought her of her pies
in the oven and the three drifted thriftily back to their morning
tasks, albeit with mind and heart down in the village.
Presently on the glad morning air sounded again the chug chug of the
motor, bringing them sharply back to their windows. Yes, there was the
Chief's car again. And Mark Carter with white haggard face sat in the
back seat! Apprehension flew to the soul of each loyal woman.
But before the sound of the Chief's motor bearing Mark Carter
Economyward had passed out of hearing, Jane Duncannon in a neat brown
dress with a little round brown ribboned hat set trimly on her rippley
hair, and a little round basket on her arm covered daintily with a
white napkin, was nipping out her tidy front gate between the
sunflowers and asters and tripping down Maple street as if it had been
on her mind to go ever since Saturday night.
Even before Mary Rafferty had turned from her Nottingham laced parlor
window and gone with swift steps to her kitchen door Christie McMertrie
stood on her back step with her sunbonnet on and a glass of jelly
wrapped in tissue paper in her hand: "She's glimpsed 'em," she whispered briefly, with a nod toward the
holland shades, "an' she's up in her side bedroom puttin' on her Sunday
bunnit. She'll be oot the door in another two meenits, the little black
crow! If we bide in the fields we can mak Carters' back stoop afore she
gets much past the tchurch!"