"
Andrew Bolton muttered something unintelligible, as he glanced up at
the poor shelter the young man held over him. As he did not offer to
avail himself of it the minister continued to walk at his side,
accommodating his long free stride to the curious shuffling gait of
the man who had spent eighteen years in prison. And so they passed
the windowed fronts of the village houses, peering out from the
dripping autumnal foliage like so many watchful eyes, till the hoarse
signal of a motor car halted them, as they were about to cross the
street in front of the Brookville House.
From the open door of the car Lydia Orr's pale face looked out.
"Oh, father," she said. "I've been looking for you everywhere!"
She did not appear to see the minister.
Bolton stepped into the car with a grunt.
"Glad to see the old black Maria, for once," he chuckled. "Don't you
recognize the parson, my dear? Nice fellow--the parson; been having
quite a visit with him at the manse. Old stamping-ground of mine, you
know. Always friendly with the parson."
Wesley Elliot had swept the hat from his head. Lydia's eyes, blue and
wide like those of a frightened child, met his with an anguished
question.
He bowed gravely.
"I should have brought him home quite safe," he told her. "I intended
ordering a carriage."
The girl's lips shaped formal words of gratitude. Then the obedient
humming of the motor deepened to a roar and the car glided swiftly
away.
On the opposite corner, her bunched skirts held high, stood Miss Lois
Daggett.
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