Only one of our close acquaintances remained in the
hotel,--Mrs. Van Truder. It was not to be long, however, before she,
too, would be adventuring forth in search of the unknown.
By this it may be readily understood that Mr. Van Truder had succeeded
in escaping from beneath her very nose, as it were.
The little village church stood at the extreme end of the street,--
dark, dismal, quite awe-inspiring on a night like this. A narrow lane
stretched from the hotel to the sanctuary and beyond. There is nothing
at hand to show whether it is a Methodist, a Presbyterian, or a
Baptist church. As the two young women most vitally concerned in this
tale were professedly high church, it is therefore no more than right
that, in the darkness, it should be looked upon as an Episcopalian
church.
Two stumbling figures, pressing close to each other in the shelter of
a single wobbly umbrella, forged their uncertain way through the muddy
lane. Except for the brief instants when the dull flicker of lightning
came to their relief, they were in pitch darkness.
"Beastly dark, isn't it?" said one of the figures.
"And beastly muddy too," said the other, in a high, disconsolate
treble.
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