Losing no more time than was necessary to fling on a wide straw hat, the girl joined her father in the hall, where he was waiting a little impatiently--rod, basket, landing-net, all ready. "You shall land the first fish, Chickie," he said, as they started. "It isn't worth while taking a rod apiece, we shall have too little time," with a glance upward at the clouded sky which seemed disposed to clear every moment. "I oughtn't to tax your self-denial so severely, dear," answered the girl, "when I know you're dying to get at the river yourself." "Self-denial, eh? Thing the preachers strongly recommend, and--always practise. Beginning here," with a slight indicating nod. Yseulte laughed. She knew her father's opinion of his spiritual pastor--in point of fact, shared it. "I knew a man once who used to say that self-abnegation was a thing not far removed from the philosopher's stone. Its indulgence inspired him with absolute indifference to life and the ills thereof, and at the same time with a magnificent contempt for the poor creatures for whose benefit he practised it." "Very good philosophy, father. But the compensation for foregoing the delights of having one's own way is not great." "My dear girl, that depends. The key to the above exposition lies in the fact that that individual never had a chance of getting his own way. So he made a virtue of necessity--an art which, though much talked about, is seldom cultivated." "Your friend was a humbug, father," was the laughing reply. "A doleful humbug, and no philosopher at all." "Eh? The effrontery of the rising generation--commonly called in the vulgar tongue--nerve! A humbug! So that's your opinion, is it, young woman?" "Yes, it is," she answered decisively, her blue eyes dancing. "Phew-w! Nothing like having your own opinion, and sticking to it," was all he said, with a dry chuckle. Then he subsided into silence, whistling meditatively, as if pondering over the whimsicality he had just propounded, or contemplating a fresh one. These same whimsicalities, by the way, were continually cropping up in Mr Santorex' conversation, to the no small confusion of his acquaintance, who never could quite make out whether he was in jest or earnest, to the delight of his satirical soul. To the infinitesimal intellects of his neighbours--the surrounding vicars, for instance--he was a conversational nightmare. They voted him dangerous, even as their kind so votes everything which happens to be incomprehensible to its own subtle ken. What sort of training could it be for a young girl just growing to womanhood to have such a man for a father--to take in his pernicious views and ideas as part of her education, as it were? And herein the surrounding vicaresses were at one with their lords. Stop! Their what? We mean their--chattels.