shameful flight.

"I'll bet they don't let you sleep to-night," he said to the priest, who
laughed at the conceit.

A cricket came out on the window-sill, chirped at Horace's elbow, and
fled at the sound of near voices. Through the thick foliage of the
chestnut trees outside he could see stars at times that made him think
of Sonia's eyes. The wind shook the branches gently, and made little
moans and whispers in the corners, as if the ghosts of the portraits
were discussing the sacrilege of the Monsignor's presence. Horace
thought at the time his nerves were strung tight by the incidents of the
day, and his interest deeply stirred by the conversation of the priest;
since hitherto he had always thought of wind as a thing that blew
disagreeably except at sea, noisy insects as public nuisances to be
caught and slain, and family portraits the last praiseworthy attempt of
ancestors to disturb the sleep of their remote heirs. When he had
somewhat tired of asking his companion questions, it occurred to him
that the Monsignor had asked none in return, and might waive his right
to this privilege of good-fellowship. He mentioned the matter.

"Thank you," said Monsignor, "but I know all about you. See now if I
give you a good account of your life and descent."

He was promenading the room before the picture-jury frowning on him. He
looked at them a moment solemnly.

"Indeed I know what I would have to expect from you," he said to the
portraits, "if you were to sit upon my case to-night. Your descendant
here is more merciful."

They laughed together.

"Well," to Horace, "you asked me many questions, because you know
nothing about me or mine, although we have been on the soil this half
century. The statesmen of your blood disdain me. This scorn is in the
air of New England, and is part of your marrow. Here is an example of
it. Once on a vacation I spent a few weeks in the house of a Puritan
lady, who learned of my faith and blood only a week before my leaving.
She had been very kind, and when I bade her good-by I assured her that I
would remember her in my prayers. 'You needn't mind,' she replied, 'my
own prayers are much better than any you can say.' This temper explains
why you have to ask questions about me, and I have none to ask
concerning you."

Horace had to admit the contention.

"Life began for you near the river that turned the wheel of the old
sawmill. Ah, that river! It was the beginning of history, of time, o