“I particularly dislike having anything to do with women,” said Kenelm, churlishly. “Parsons are accustomed to get round them. Surely, my dear sir, you are more fit for that work than I am.” “Permit me humbly to doubt that proposition; one does n’t get very quickly round the women when one carries the weight of years on one’s back. But whenever you want the aid of a parson to bring your own wooing to a happy conclusion, I shall be happy, in my special capacity of parson, to perform the ceremony required.” “_Dii meliora_!” said Kenelm, gravely. “Some ills are too serious to be approached even in joke. As for Miss Travers, the moment you call her benevolent you inspire me with horror. I know too well what a benevolent girl is,--officious, restless, fidgety, with a snub nose, and her pocket full of tracts. I will not go to the harvest-supper.” “Hist!” said the Parson, softly. They were now passing the cottage of Mrs. Somers; and while Kenelm was haranguing against benevolent girls, Mr. Lethbridge had paused before it, and was furtively looking in at the window. “Hist! and come here,--gently.” Kenelm obeyed, and looked in through the window. Will was seated; Jessie Wiles had nestled herself at his feet, and was holding his hand in both hers, looking up into his face. Her profile alone was seen, but its expression was unutterably soft and tender. His face, bent downwards towards her, wore a mournful expression; nay, the tears were rolling silently down his cheeks. Kenelm listened and heard her say, “Don’t talk so, Will, you break my heart; it is I who am not worthy of you.” “Parson,” said Kenelm, as they walked on, “I must go to that confounded harvest-supper. I begin to think there is something true in the venerable platitude about love in a cottage. And Will Somers must be married in haste, in order to repent at leisure.” “I don’t see why a man should repent having married a good girl whom he loves.” “You don’t? Answer me candidly. Did you ever meet a man who repented having married?” “Of course I have; very often.” “Well, think again, and answer as candidly. Did you ever meet a man who repented not having married?” The Parson mused, and was silent. “Sir,” said Kenelm, “your reticence proves your honesty, and I respect it.” So saying, he bounded off, and left the Parson crying out wildly, “But--but--” CHAPTER XXI. MR. SAUNDERSON and Kenelm sat in the arbour: the former sipping his grog and smoking his pipe; the latter looking forth into the summer night skies with an earnest yet abstracted gaze, as if he were trying to count the stars in the Milky Way. “Ha!” said Mr. Saunderson, who was concluding an argument; “you see it now, don’t you?” “I? not a bit of it. You tell me that your grandfather was a farmer, and your father was a farmer, and that you have been a farmer for thirty years; and from these premises you deduce the illogical and irrational conclusion that therefore your son must be a farmer.”