"No one knew that I had ever met you, and how was I to know that Mrs. Justin Mercer was Miss Derrice Lancaster?" "And you live here?" "Yes, next door. These people here are some of my parishioners." "And do you--what is it you call it--preach in that coat?" "No, I preach in my shirt-sleeves," he said, irritably. Derrice wrinkled her forehead. Now that the first blush of greeting was over she had leisure to scrutinise him. Where was the gay carelessness, almost recklessness, of demeanour that had characterise her friend in former days? Gone like a dream of youth,--this moody, reserved man with the flushed face had slipped in among the ranks of the middle-aged. "What has brought on this metamorphosis?" she asked, dubiously. "Don't talk about me," he said, wearily, "you will hear gossip _ad nauseam_. Tell me what you have been doing since I had the pleasure of meeting you?" "Ah," she said, mournfully, "how far off it seems. I was revelling in my release from a brief term of school life, and the freedom of renewed travel with my father. We went to Europe, then we came to New York, and after that went to South America and California. Then my father wanted me to marry--" Mr. Huntington surveyed her keenly. Her face was distressed, her lips trembling, and she looked as if she were about to cry, yet she controlled herself, and went on in a light tone, "Isn't his mother queer,--she simply detests me. I never had any one do that before." Mr. Huntington strode to the door, and, finding it ajar, shrugged his shoulders, fastened it, and returned to his seat. "She is a trying woman. If you are as mischievous as in former days, Derrice, I would give a year's salary to have you stay here and help me discipline her." "But I don't want to stay here," she said, pitifully. "I want my husband to go away and travel with me and my father." "Can he do that?" "He does not say. Just now he cannot leave the bank. Perhaps later on I can get him to do it." "And you would not go without him?" "Well, you see," she replied, "he is rather fond of me, and if I leave him he says-- Well, I fancy he would be lonely." "I suppose he says his heart would break." Derrice laughed nervously, and he went on. "Let it break. Other hearts have broken. It is a shame to keep you here. You were not born for the arid atmosphere of a New England town." Derrice stopped laughing, and surveyed the friendly, handsome face beyond her. "Have you married?" "No." "Why did you not ask me?" she said, mischievously. "I knew better, and you were too young. I think your father took you to Europe to get rid of me, though he probably did not tell you so."