"Yes, or prejudice. But George has always been a good judge of men. He has excellent business sense—has invested in lots and can make a fair profit on them at any time he cares to sell. Shall we turn back here?" Agnes and the preacher sat in the drawing room, she flouncing about on a sofa, and he dignified on a straight-back chair. It is rather remarkable that a preacher is more often attracted by a mischief-loving girl than by a sedate maiden; and this may account for the truth that ministers’ sons are sometimes so full of that quality known, impiously, as the devil. In the early days of the English church, when the meek parson, not permitted to hope that he might one day chase a fox or drink deep with the bishop, and who was forced to retire to the servants’ hall when the ale and the cheese cakes came on, had cause in secret to offer up thanks that not more than two of his sons were pirates on the high seas. And Bradley sat there watching a cotillion of mischief dancing in the eyes of the girl. "You have never been connected with any church, have you?" "Once," she replied, with a graceful flounce. "But I danced out." "Danced out, did you say?" "Yes. I got religion in the fall and lost it in the winter—by going to a ball and dancing." "Why," said the preacher, slowly, patting his knee, "that did not cause you to lose it." "Well, that’s what they said, anyway. And I know I cried after I got home because my religion was gone." "It is a crime to teach such rubbish." "Then you don’t think I lost it?" "Surely not." "Then I must have it yet," she cried, clapping her hands. "Miss Agnes, your purity is of itself a religion." "I don’t know about that. I am wicked sometimes—I say hateful things." "But there is no bitterness in your soul." "I don’t know, but I think there is, sometimes. I know once I wished that a woman was dead; but she was the meanest thing you ever saw. And she did die not long after that and I was scared nearly to death—and I prayed and sent flowers to the funeral. Wasn’t that wicked?" The preacher admitted that it was wayward, but he could not find it in his inflamed heart to call her wicked. She was too engaging, too handsome to be wicked. Nature could not so defame herself, he thought, though he knew that there was many a beautiful flower without perfume. But while settled love condemns, love springing into life forgives. "Wayward," said the preacher, "Perhaps thoughtless would be a better word." "No, it wasn’t thoughtless, because I was thinking hard all the time. Don’t you get awfully tired studying up something to preach about?"