He had retreated toward the door, but the young lady moved a step toward him. "How devoted you are to that desk of yours. How you must miss your former life of freedom." The cloud on his brow grew more heavy, and seeing it, Miss Gastonguay exclaimed, hospitably, "Let the musty old Negus books alone, and go take your constitutional on the river road. Then after lunch Chelda will drive you in town and make her call on your friend, the bride. You will, won't you, Chelda?" "Certainly," said the young lady, sweetly, but without eagerness. The clergyman flashed one rapid glance about the quiet elegance of the room, and another at his eccentric and unconventional hostess and her graceful niece. These surroundings were more congenial to him in his present state of mind than the dingy parsonage. "I will come back, thank you," he said, and, hurrying from the house, he went down the road at a swinging gait. Miss Gastonguay, with her little manly swagger, followed him to the big hall door. "Chelda, that man does not seem happy lately." "Perhaps he is working too hard." "He isn't in love with you, is he?" asked Miss Gastonguay, sharply. Chelda discreetly lowered her eyes. "I don't know." "You wouldn't marry him if he were. You are too fond of your own comfort to tie yourself to a poor clergyman." "You are right, aunt, I shall never marry a clergyman." "I believe," continued Miss Gastonguay, in a puzzled voice, "that he likes to come to this house. He once told me that it reminded him of his father's house on the Hudson. Have they ever forgiven him for turning parson, do you know?" "No; his father has cut him out of his will, and has requested him not to go home." "A cold-hearted money-bags, nourished on the milk of Wall Street. Chelda, do you believe that among foreign aristocracy there is half the scorn for the lowly born, the toiling poor, that there is among our so-called American aristocrats?" "I do not know, aunt, my acquaintance with the foreign nobility being limited." "You have met them travelling,--those counts and countesses, dukes and duchesses,--you have seen that they have some bowels of compassion; but our rich people here,--they are grossly material. It is money, money, how much have you? What is the biggest piece of foolery you can perpetrate with it? Some day we shall have a labour war; the poor will rise up against them," and shaking her head and scolding to herself she started in the direction of her stables. Chelda, with the train of her Parisian gown rustling daintily over the bare and polished steps of the staircase, went up to the top of the house, where she sat sunning her sleek, beautiful self and observing the country for miles around. Sometimes she picked up a field-glass beside her to better watch the movements of a stalwart pedestrian on the high-road. "He has one devil now; Heaven grant that he may return with seven more," she murmured, joyfully. CHAPTER VII.