172 THE SOUTH BAY. 



cliurcli were as well drenched as if they had fallen 

 overboard. Mutual exhaustion produced a cessation 

 of hostilities, and after a moment's pause, Deacon 

 Hartley slowly drew up the anchor-stone, and Dea- 

 con Goodlow rowed silently to shore. Without a 

 word, without a glance, the latter stepped to bis 

 buggy, untied the horse, jumped in and rode off. 



Mr. Hartley had to secure the boat, collect his 

 fish, unjoint his rod, and walk four miles home. The 

 day was hot, the road was dusty, the fish were 

 heavy, and tired enough he would have been, if an 

 acquaintance passing in a wagon had not taken him 

 up. The dust having covered him from head to 

 foot helped disguise what had happened, and he 

 allowed the gentleman to think he had slipped into 

 the water. 



The thoughts of the two deacons on the way 

 home were not enviable. One had to meet a son, the 

 other a daughter, and the latter dreaded the inter- 

 view most ; not that he admitted he was most to 

 blame, but fearing more her sharp eyes and re- 

 proachful countenance. 



" Oh, Hariy," said the pretty little girl usually so 

 gay, now with sad-looking tear worn eyes, as she 

 encountered her astonished lover on his way home 

 from the railroad, " your father and mine quarrelled 

 dreadfully to-day, so much so that they would not 

 ride home together." 



" Just as I expected," replied Harry, triumphant- 

 ly ; " your f ither is so easily excited." 



*' No, but he says it was your father's fimlt, at 



