fashionably-dressed young man
among the "ancient and fish-like" odors of the West Wallen meeting-house
with a positive sense of relief.

"If I might venture to suppose," Mr. Rollin continued, whispering, "that
I came here to-day clothed, in any sense, as an angel of light--and,
indeed, I feel a good deal like that sort of thing to-day--so sweet are
the solaces of an approving conscience, and the consciousness of having
resisted temptation. You see I was--yes, I was going fishing this
morning, but I saw Captain Keeler go by to church--observe, too, the
beauty of setting a good example--and I persuaded myself that it was
wrong to go fishing on Sunday, and so I concluded to come to church,
too."

At the light mockery of the fisherman's tone, the bolder flattery of his
eyes, I felt the same quick flash of resentment that his words had
occasioned when he walked with me up the lane. I turned my head away
with the noble resolve to keep it there persistently.

Then I heard the whisper, "Miss Hungerford, you are driving me to the
last extreme of idol worship. I shall, keep on addressing my petitions to
that ostrich tip in your hat until you give me, at least, the benefit of
your profile."

"I don't see why you should say such irreverent things to me, Mr.
Rollin," I said, quite seriously, turning, and looking him full in the
face, for an instant.

"Heaven forbid!" he replied, in an almost inaudible tone. "And if I could
have conceived of such a thing, I would beg your pardon. You have
brothers, Miss Hungerford?"

"Yes," I answered, nodding my head slightly, with my eyes fixed
steadfastly on the ancient instructor of our class.

"How would you feel if your brother was off, alone, in some wild country,
in need of good and gentle influences, and some young lady should treat
him as you are treating me? Please turn your head a little this way.
But, on the whole, I'm very glad I'm not your brother. Shall I tell you
Why? Miss Hungerford," the fisherman continued, after a pause, "do you
know I've always heard that auburn-haired people come, by right, into
possession of the worst tempers. Your hair is brown--dark brown, and mine
is red, almost--don't you think so?--and yet my mind is all peace within,
and hope, and joy, and

'What is the blooming tincture of the skin,
To peace of mind and purity, within?'

Miss Hungerford, it has been full two minutes, by my watch, since I
caught the last beam from your eye. Let us fo