"You're not a bit like a parson," said Maryllia gravely, studying his face with embarrassing candour and closeness; "You look quite a nice pleasant sort of man." John Walden laughed again,--this time with sincere heartiness. Maryllia's eyes twinkled, and little dimples came and went round her mouth and chin. "You seem amused at that," she said; "But I've seen a great deal of life--and I have met heaps and heaps of parsons--parsons young and parsons old--and they were all horrid, simply horrid! Some talked Bible--and others talked the Sporting Times--any amount of them talked the drama, and played villains in private theatricals. I never met but one real minister,--that is a man who ministers to the poor,--and he died in a London slum before he was thirty. I believe he was a saint; and if he had lived in the days of the early Church, he would certainly have been canonised. He would have been Saint William--his name was William. But he was only one William,--I've seen hundreds of them." "Hundreds of Williams?" queried Walden suggestively. This time it was Maryllia who laughed,--a gay little laugh like that of a child. "No, I guess not!" she answered; "Some of them are real Johnnies! Oh dear me!"--and again her laughter broke forth; "I quite forgot! You said YOUR name was John!" "So it is." And he smiled; "I'm sorry you don't like it!" She checked her merriment abruptly, and became suddenly serious. "But I do like it! You mustn't think I don't. Oh, how rude I must seem to you! Please forgive me! I really do like the name of John!" He glanced up at her, still smiling. "Thank you! It's very kind of you to say so!" "You believe me, don't you?" she said persistently. "Of course I do! Of course I must! Though unhappily a Churchman, I am not altogether a heretic.'" The smile deepened in his eyes,--and as she met his somewhat quizzical glance a slight wave of colour rose to her cheeks and brow. She drew herself up in her saddle with a sudden, proud movement and carried her little head a trifle higher. Walden looked at her now as he would have looked at a charming picture, without the least embarrassment. She appeared so extremely young to him. She awakened in his mind a feeling of kindly paternal interest, such as he might have felt for Susie Prescott or Ipsie Frost. He was not even quite sure that he considered her in any way out of the common, so far as her beauty was concerned,--though he recognised that she was almost the living image of 'the lady in the vi'let velvet' whose portrait adorned the gallery in Abbot's Manor. The resemblance was heightened by the violet colour of the riding dress she wore and the absence of any head-covering save her own pretty brown-gold hair.