olk therein,
that would have turned many a young fellow's head.

When they thought the service was about over they went round to the
porch and awaited the coming out of the congregation. And among the
first to make their appearance--issuing from the dusky little building
into this bewilderment of white light and green leaves--were old Dr.
Moore and his wife, and Miss Francie Wright, who passed for Lionel's
cousin, though the relationship was somewhat more remote than that.
Maurice Mangan received a very hearty welcome from these good people;
and then, as they set out for home, Lionel walked on with his father and
mother, while Lionel's friend naturally followed with the young lady.
She was not a distinctly beautiful person, perhaps, this slim-figured
young woman, with the somewhat pale face, the high-arched eyebrows, and
light-brown hair; but at least she had extremely pretty gray eyes, that
had a touch of shrewdness and humor in them, as well as plenty of
gentleness and womanliness; and she had a soft and attractive voice,
which goes for much.

"It is so kind of you, Mr. Mangan," said she, in that soft and winning
voice, "to bring Linn down. You know he won't come down by himself; and
who can wonder at it? It is so dull and monotonous for him here, after
the gay life he leads in London."

"Dull and monotonous!" he exclaimed. "Why, I have been preaching to him
all the morning that he should be delighted to come down into the
quietude of the country, as a sort of moral bath after the insensate
racket of that London whirl. But no one ever knows how well off he is,"
he continued, as they walked along between the fragrant hawthorn hedges;
"it's the lookers-on who know. Good gracious, what wouldn't I give to be
in Linn's place!"

"Do you mean in London, Mr. Mangan?" she asked, and for an instant the
pretty gray eyes looked up.

"Certainly not!" he said, with unnecessary warmth. "I mean here. If I
could run down of a Sunday to a beautiful, quiet, old-fashioned place
like this, and find myself in my own home, among my own people, I wonder
how many Sundays would find me in London? You can't imagine, you have no
idea, what it is to live quite alone in London, with no one to turn to
but club acquaintances; and I think Sunday is the worst day of all,
especially if it is fine weather, and all the people have gone to the
country or the seaside to spend the day with their friends."

"But, Mr. Mangan," said Miss Francie Wright,