Three days later Mac said “good-bye” in earnest, and no one was surprised that he left somewhat abruptly, such being his way, and a course of lectures by a famous physician the ostensible reason for a trip to L----. Uncle Alec deserted most shamefully at the last moment by sending word that he would be at the station to see the traveler off, Aunt Plenty was still in her room, so when Mac came down from his farewell to her, Rose met him in the hall, as if anxious not to delay him. She was a little afraid of another tete-a-tete, as she fared so badly at the last, and had assumed a calm and cousinly air which she flattered herself would plainly show on what terms she wished to part. Mac apparently understood, and not only took the hint, but surpassed her in cheerful composure, for, merely saying “Good-bye, Cousin; write when you feel like it,” he shook hands and walked out of the house as tranquilly as if only a day instead of three months were to pass before they met again. Rose felt as if a sudden shower bath had chilled her and was about to retire, saying to herself with disdainful decision: “There's no love about it after all, only one of the eccentricities of genius,” when a rush of cold air made her turn to find herself in what appeared to be the embrace of an impetuous overcoat, which wrapped her close for an instant, then vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving her to hide in the sanctum and confide to Psyche with a tender sort of triumph in her breathless voice: “No, no, it isn't genius that must be love!” Chapter 19 BEHIND THE FOUNTAIN Two days after Christmas a young man of serious aspect might have been seen entering one of the large churches at L----. Being shown to a seat, he joined in the services with praiseworthy devotion, especially the music, to which he listened with such evident pleasure that a gentleman who sat nearby felt moved to address this appreciative stranger after church. “Fine sermon today. Ever heard our minister before, sir?” he began, as they went down the aisle together among the last, for the young man had lingered as if admiring the ancient building. “Very fine. No, sir, I have never had that pleasure. I've often wished to see this old place, and am not at all disappointed. Your choir, too, is unusually good,” answered the stranger, glancing up at several bonnets bobbing about behind the half-drawn curtains above. “Finest in the city, sir. We pride ourselves on our music, and always have the best. People often come for that alone.” And the old gentleman looked as satisfied as if a choir of cherubim and seraphim “continually did cry” in his organ loft. “Who is the contralto? That solo was beautifully sung,” observed the younger man, pausing to read a tablet on the wall. “That is Miss Moore. Been here about a year, and is universally admired. Excellent young lady couldn't do without her. Sings superbly in oratorios. Ever heard her?” “Never. She came from X, I believe?