"I'm a trifle dazzled myself. Bates has tapped a new

cellar somewhere. I'm afraid I'm not a good housekeeper,

to speak truthfully. There are times when I

hate the house; when it seems wholly ridiculous, the

whim of an eccentric old man; and then again I'm actually

afraid that I like its seclusion."

"Your seclusion is better than mine. You know my

little two-room affair behind the chapel,-only a few,

books and a punching bag. That chapel also is one of

your grandfather's whims. He provided that all the

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offices of the church must be said there daily or the

endowment is stopped. Mr. Glenarm lived in the past,

or liked to think he did. I suppose you know-or maybe

you don't know-how I came to have this appointment?"

"Indeed, I should like to know."

We had reached the soup, and Bates was changing

our plates with his accustomed light hand.

"It was my name that did the business,-Paul. A

bishop had recommended a man whose given name was

Ethelbert,-a decent enough name and one that you

might imagine would appeal to Mr. Glenarm; but he

rejected him because the name might too easily be cut

down to Ethel, a name which, he said, was very distasteful

to him."

"That is characteristic. The dear old gentleman!" I

exclaimed with real feeling.

"But he reckoned without his host," Stoddard continued.

"The young ladies, I have lately learned, call

me Pauline, as a mark of regard or otherwise,-probably

otherwise. I give two lectures a week on church

history, and I fear my course isn't popular."

"But it is something, on the other hand, to be in touch

with such an institution. They are a very sightly company,

those girls. I enjoy watching them across the

garden wall. And I had a closer view of them at the

station this morning, when you ran off and deserted

me."

He laughed,-his big wholesome cheering laugh.

"I take good care not to see much of them socially."

"Afraid of the eternal feminine?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. I'm preparing to go into a

Brotherhood, as you probably don't know. And girls

are distracting."

I glanced at my companion with a new inquiry and

interest.

"I didn't know," I said.

"Yes; I'm spending my year in studies that I may

never have a chance for hereafter. I'm going into an

order whose members work hard."

He spoke as though he were planning a summer outing.

I had not sat at meat with a clergyman since the

death of my parents broke up our old home in Vermont,

and my attitude toward the cloth was, I fear, one of

antagonism dating from those days.

"Well, I saw Pickering after all," I remarked.

"Yes, I saw him, too. What is it in his case, genius

or good luck?"




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