n abhorrence. But her face had a sweet unconcern that
reassured him.

"And did you like it--'Paradise Lost'?"

"I think I did--not," returned Doris with hesitating frankness. "I liked
the verses in Percy's 'Reliques' better. I like verses that rhyme, that
you can sing to yourself."

"Ah! And how about the sums?"

"I didn't like them at all. But Miss Arabella said the right things were
often hard, and the easy things----"

"Well, what is the fault of the easy things that we all like, and ought
not to like?"

"They were not so good for anyone--though I don't see why. They are
often very pleasant."

He laughed then, but some intuition told her he liked pleasant things as
well.

"What do you do in such a case?"

"I did the sums. It was the right thing to do. And I studied Latin,
though Miss Arabella said it was of no use to a girl."

"And the French?"

"Oh, I learned French when I was very little and had mamma, and when I
was in the convent, too. But papa talked English, so I had them both.
Isn't it strange that afterward you have to learn so much about them,
and how to make right sentences, and why they are right. It seems as if
there were a great many things in the world to learn. Betty doesn't know
half of them, and she's as sweet as----Oh, I think the wisest person in
the world couldn't be any sweeter."

Winthrop Adams smiled at the eager reasoning. Betty was a bright, gay
girl. What occult quality was sweetness? And Doris had been in a
convent. That startled him the first moment. The old strict bitterness
and narrowness of Puritanism had been softened and refined away. The
people who had banished Quakers had for a long while tolerated Roman
Catholics. He had known Father Matignon, and enjoyed the scholarly and
well-trained John Cheverus, who had lately been consecrated bishop. The
Protestants had even been generous to their brethren of another faith
when they were building their church. As for himself he was a rather
stiff Church of England man, if he could be called stiff about anything.

"And--did you like the convent?" he asked, after a pause, in which he
generously made up his mind he would not interfere with her religious
belief.

"It's so long ago"--with a half-sigh. "I was very sad at first, and
missed mamma. Papa had to go away somewhere and couldn't take me. Yes, I
liked sister Therese very much. Mamma was a Huguenot, you know."

"You see, I really do not know anything about her, and have k