time. Besides, the key is sure to be under the doormat. Yes, here it
is! Of all the unaccountable customs I ever knew, that's the most
laughable!"

"Works all right for you!"

"Yes, and for all the other tramps,"--and Dick opened the door and
lifted in his belongings. "Good-night," he called to the driver; "I'll
walk up to the church after I've found out whether mother keeps the
mince pie and cider apple sauce in the same old place."

A few minutes later, his hunger partially stayed, Dick Larrabee locked
the parsonage door and took the well-trodden path across the church
common. It was his father's feet, he knew, that had worn the shoveled
path so smooth; his kind, faithful feet that had sped to and fro on
errands of mercy, never faltering in all the years.

It was nearly eight o'clock. The sound of the melodeon, with
children's voices, floated out from the white-painted meeting-house,
all ablaze with light; or as much ablaze as a kerosene chandelier and
six side lamps could make it. The horse sheds were crowded with teams
of various sorts, the horses well blanketed and standing comfortably
in straw; and the last straggler was entering the right-hand door of
the church as Dick neared the steps. Simultaneously the left-hand door
opened, and on the background of the light inside appeared the figure
of Mrs. Todd, the wife of his ancient enemy, the senior deacon. Dick
could see that a sort of dressing-room had been curtained off in the
little entry, as it had often been in former times of tableaux and
concerts and what not. Valor, not discretion, was the better policy,
and walking boldly up to the steps Dick took off his fur cap and