topped
sewing, and looked off into the trees; and you said 't was beautiful.
But I carried it to old Parson Sibley that night, and I can see just how
he looked sitting there in his study, with his great spectacles pushed
up on his forehead, and his hand drumming on a book. He had the
dictionary put in a certain place on his table because he found he'd got
used to drumming on the Bible, and he was a very particular man. And
when I got through reading the sermon, his face wrinkled all up, though
he didn't laugh out loud, and he came over to me and put his hand on my
shoulder. 'William,' says he, 'you go home and write a doctrinal sermon,
the stiffest you can. _This one's about a girl._ You might give it to
Mary Ellen North for a wedding-present.'"

The parson had grown almost gay under the vivifying influence of memory.
But Mary Ellen did not smile.

"Yes," she repeated softly, "I remember."

"And then I laughed a little, and got out of the study the best way I
could, and ran over to you to tell you what he said. And I left the
sermon in your work-basket. I've often wished, in the light of what came
afterwards--I've often wished I'd kept it. Somehow 't would have brought
me nearer to you."

It seemed as if she were about to rise from her chair, but she quieted
herself and dulled the responsive look upon her face.

"Mary Ellen," the parson burst forth, "I know how I took what came on us
the very next week, but I never knew how you took it. Should you just as
lieves tell me?"

She lifted her head until it held a noble pose. Her eyes shone
brilliantly, though indeed they were doves' eyes.

"I'll tell you," said she. "I couldn't have told you ten years ago,--no,
nor five! but now it's an old woman talking to an old man. I was given
to understand you were tired of me, and too honorable to say so. I don't
know what tale was carried to you"--

"She said you'd say 'yes' to that rich fellow in Sudleigh, if I'd give
you a chance!"

"I knew 't was something as shallow as that. Well, I'll tell you how I
took it. I put up my head and laughed. I said, 'When William Bond wants
to break with me, he'll say so.' And the next day you did say so."

The parson wrung his hands in an involuntary gesture of appeal.

"Minnie! Minnie!" he cried, "why didn't you save me? What made you let
me _be_ a fool?"

She met his gaze with a tenderness so great that the words lost all
their sting.

"You always were, William," she said quietly.