Manuel ran his fingers uneasily through his oily locks, and burst out, "Nosar--confess, sar--reglar." "Confess!" exclaimed Galbraith, roused at having his servant's religious belief thrust before him; "confess to an idol." "Nosar--confess to Father St. Francis." "Pish!" and Galbraith helped himself to a fresh cup of tea, but said no more. When he had finished, the Goanese removed the tea things, and the pastor remained sitting in his easy-chair. He would have liked to smoke; in fact, an almost intolerable longing seized him, but he thrust it down. "I will not desecrate the Sabbath," he said. He would not even look at his flowers; but after staring for a few minutes at the cheerless walls of the meeting-house, rose and went in. CHAPTER III. A BILLET-DOUX. As Galbraith went into the house he noticed the dreary aspect of the rooms. He laid his hand for a moment on a small side-table, and when he lifted his fingers off their impression was distinctly visible on the dusty surface. A picture on the wall before him had slipped from its moorings, and hung in a helpless sort of way from a brass-headed nail. The pastor mounted a chair, and set the picture straight, wiping the glass carefully with his pocket-handkerchief. As he stepped down he called to mind a remark made by good-natured Mrs. Bunny. "You want a wife," she said to him one day, when he complained of some domestic trouble, in which Manuel had played a principal part. Her eyes rested, as she said this, on Halsa Lamport, who was standing in the veranda attending to a canary. Galbraith followed the glance, and although he smiled a little, and parried the speech, Mrs. Bunny's words set him thinking seriously. And now the little episode of the milk and sugar and the untidy room brought Mrs. Bunny's words back again. It struck him that Mrs. Lamport was very kind and gracious to him. The recollection of their last meeting, and the slight yet warm pressure of her hand which had sent the blood dancing through his veins, came vividly before him.