The minister chuckled.

"Ain't he a smart one?" he rejoined. "Smart as a trap! Dorcas, I 'ain't
finished my sermon. I guess I shall have to preach an old one. You lay
me out the one on the salt losin' its savor, an' I'll look it over."

"Yes, father."

The same demand and the same answer, varied but slightly, had been
exchanged between them every Saturday night for years. Dorcas replied
now without thinking. Her mind had spread its wings and flown out into
the sweet stillness of the garden and the world beyond; it even
hastened on into the unknown ways of guesswork, seeking for one who
should be coming. She strained her ears to hear the beating of hoofs
and the rattle of wheels across the little, bridge. The dusk sifted in
about the house, faster and faster; a whippoorwill cried from the
woods. So she sat until the twilight had vanished, and another of the
invisible genii was at hand, saying, "I am Night."

"Dorcas!" called the parson again. He had been asleep, and seemed now
to be holding himself back from a broken dream. "Dorcas, has your
mother come in yet?"

"No, father."

"Well, you wake me up when you see her down the road; and then you go
an' carry her a shawl. I dunno what to make o' that cough!" His voice
trailed sleepily off, and Dorcas rose and tiptoed out of the room. She
felt the blood in her face; her ears thrilled noisily. The doctor's,