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 ure were Mrs. Crompton's household gods, to whom she offered constant libation. Consequently, The Parson's nonchalant indifference to her wishes piqued and interested her as much as it irritated her—or a little more. She followed him slowly. "I feel like a squaw!" she called to him.

"Won't hurt you," he called back. "I promised you a new sensation. Take care of that rock—it's slippery."

Alas for Mrs. Crompton!—the warning came too late. She stepped on the edge of the slippery rock, plunged forward, full length, and dug her arms into the soft, mucky bank up to the elbows, saluting Mother Earth with her forehead. With a shout of dismay, The Parson flew to the rescue, He had fairly to dig her out, and, strange to say, the voluble Mrs. Crompton was.absolutely silent—whether from rage or pain he couldn't make out.

"Are you hurt, Nan?" he asked anxiously.

"Hurt? Hurt?" she blazed. "Can you look at me and ask if I'm hurt?"