He had no more idea, even yet, what he should say to her than the Saint Michael over his study-table. He felt in himself a kind of pictorial helplessness; as if he represented something which he was incapable of expressing. His head swam. He leaned back on the bamboo chair in the parlor. Through the soft stirring of the lace curtains he watched a fleet start out, and tack across the harbor. He interested himself in the greenish-white sails of an old schooner with a new suit on. He found it impossible to think coherently of the interview which awaited him. A hand fell on the latch of the door. He turned--ah! “Good-morning, Professor,” said Bayard, rising manfully. His pale face, if possible, turned a shade whiter. It seemed to him the fitting sequel to his weakness that he should be called to account by the girl’s father. “I have deserved it,” he thought. “Ah, Bayard, this is too bad!” said the Professor of Theology, cordially holding out his hand. “You have just missed my daughter. I am sure she will regret it. She took the twenty minutes past seven train.” “Took the _train_?” panted Bayard. “She has gone to join some friends of ours--the Rollinses, at Campo Bello. She did not intend to leave for some days; but the mood took her, and off she started. I think, indeed, she went without her breakfast. Helen is whimsical at times. Do be seated! We will do our poor best to take my daughter’s place,” pursued the Professor, smiling indulgently; “and I’m especially glad of this opportunity, Bayard, to tell you how much I was impressed by your discourse last night. I don’t mind saying so at all.” “Thank you, Professor,” said Bayard faintly. “It was not theology, you know,” observed the Professor, still smiling; “you can’t expect me to admit that it was sound, Bayard. But I must say, sir, I _do_ say, that I defy any council in New England to say it was not Christianity!” “Thank you, Professor,” repeated Bayard, more faintly than before. He found it impossible to talk about theology, or even Christianity. The Professor felt rather hurt that the young man took his leave so soon. He had thought of inviting him into the clam study, and reading some extracts from the essay on the State of the Unforgiven after Death. Bayard went back to his own rooms, and wrote to her; if he could have done so, he would have followed her to Campo Bello by the next boat. The pitiable fact was, that he could not raise the money for the trip. It occurred to him to force the occasion and borrow it--of his treasurer, of George Fenton, of his uncle; but he dismissed these fantasies as madness, and swiftly wrote:-- I hurried to you at the first decent moment this morning; but I was not early enough by an hour. The reason why I do not--why I cannot follow you, by the next train, perhaps you will understand without my being forced to explain. I take the only method left to me of justifying myself--if it is possible for me to do that--in your eyes.