used to snatch up her bonnet and fly and lock herself up in a closet at the top of the house, and read some good book as quiet as a mouse, till the servants had hunted for her and told them she must be out. She was not in a frame of mind to sustain tarlatans, barege, the history of the last hop, and the prophecies of the next; the wounded deer shrunk from its gamboling associates, and indeed from all strangers, except John Meadows. “He talks to me about something worth talking about,” said Susan Merton. It happened one day, while Susan was in this sad and I may say dangerous state of mind, that the servant came up to her, and told her a gentleman was on his horse at the door, and wanted to see Mr. Merton. “Father is at market, Jane.” “Yes, miss, but I told the gentleman you were at home.” “Me! what have I to do with father's visitors?” “Miss,” replied Jane mysteriously, “it is a parson, and you are so fond of them, I could not think to let him go away without getting a word with anybody; and he has such a face. La, miss, you never saw such a face.” “Silly girl, what have I to do with handsome faces?” “But he is not handsome, miss, not in the least, only he is beautiful. You go and see else.” “I hate strangers' faces, but I will go to him, Jane; it is my duty, since it is a clergyman. I will just go upstairs.” “La, miss, what for? you are always neat, you are--nobody ever catches you in your dishables like the rest of 'em.” “I'll just smooth my hair.” “La, miss, what for? it is smooth as marble--it always is.” “Where is he, Jane?” “In the front parlor.” “I won't be a moment.” She went upstairs. There was no necessity; Jane was right there; but it was a strict custom in the country, and is, for that matter, and will be till time and vanity shall be no more. More majorum a girl must go up and look at herself in the glass if she did nothing more, before coming in to receive company. Susan entered the parlor; she came in so gently that she had a moment to observe her visitor before he saw her. He had seated himself with his back to the light, and was devouring a stupid book on husbandry that belonged to her father. The moment she closed the door he saw her and rose from his seat. “Miss Merton?” “Yes, sir.” “The living of this place has been vacant more than a month.” “Yes, sir.” “It will not be filled up for three months, perhaps.” “So we hear, sir.” “Meantime you have no church to go to nearer than Barmstoke, which is a chapel-of-ease to this place, but two miles distant.” “Two miles and a half, sir.” “So then the people here have no divine service on the Lord's day.” “No, sir, not for the present,” said Susan meekly, lowering her lashes, as if the clergyman had said, “This is a parish of heathens, whereof you are one.” “Nor any servant of God to say a word of humility and charity to the rich, of eternal hope to the poor, and” (here his voice sunk into sudden tenderness) “of comfort to the sorrowful.”