startled to see that she looked so like a lady. Then, with a new and
jealous inconsistency, significant of the progress of his passion, he
resolved to go to church too. She should see that he was not going to
remain behind like a mere slave. He remembered that he had still certain
remnants of his past finery in his trunk; he would array himself in
them, walk to Oakdale, and make one of the congregation. He managed to
change his clothes without attracting the attention of his fellows, and
set out.

The air was pure but keen, with none of the languor of spring in
its breath, although a few flowers were beginning to star the weedy
wagon-tracked lane, and there was an awakening spice in the wayside
southernwood and myrtle. He felt invigorated, although it seemed only to
whet his jealous pique. He hurried on without even glancing toward the
distant coast-line of San Francisco or even thinking of it. The bitter
memories of the past had been obliterated by the bitterness of the
present. He no longer thought of "that woman;" even when he had
threatened to himself to return to San Francisco, he was vaguely
conscious that it was not SHE who was again drawing him there, but Nelly
who was driving him away.

The service was nearly over when he arrived at the chilly little
corrugated-zinc church at Oakdale, but he slipped into one of the back
seats. A few worshipers turned round to look at him. Among them were the
daughters of a neighboring miller, who were slightly exercised over the
unusual advent of a good-looking stranger with certain exterior signs of
elegance. Their excitement was communicated by some mysterious instinct
to their neighbor, Nelly Woodridge. She also turned and caught his
eye. But to all appearances she not only showed no signs of her usual
agitation at his presence, but did not seem to even recognize him.