“Ah!” said the minister, a gleam of pleasure lighting up his dark countenance, “then I am very happy in possessing the means of obviating that objection; having just purchased a gig, I shall be very happy in making a small circuit in my ride, for the purpose of taking you to church.” “You will be giving yourself too much trouble, sir,” said Sophie. “Not so, my dear; you must see that to _me_ at least it will be a pleasure.” “You are very obliging, sir.” Sophie’s eyes were fixed upon her knitting. She appeared to be counting the stitches. He found it very difficult to support a conversation with her, but he persevered, questioning her with a pastor’s privilege with a young parishioner, upon the state of her affairs in general, her income, the number of slaves on hire, the resources of her farm, her fishing landing, her moor, her garden, and her dairy. She gave him laconic, but straightforward answers, and at the end of the colloquy he mused, and, half to himself, said, that the place had been very much abused, that with ease it might yet be reclaimed, and a handsome property made of it; and then, at the end of an hour, he arose and took leave. Sophie rejoiced that his visit was at an end. Throughout his whole stay she had not once raised her eyes to his countenance. Two evenings from that, at the same hour, and in the same place, Sophie sat alone, a rap was heard at the door, and again she arose, opened it, and admitted the minister; again he found a seat at the opposite side of her workstand; and again he freely used his pastoral privilege of questioning her; but this time it was not upon external circumstances, but upon the operations of her mind and heart; and how adroitly he did it—_with his pastoral privilege_—and but for her antipathy, how easy had been his task, with one of Sophie’s _naiveté_. Yes, she admitted, in reply to his searching questions, that even she, young as she was, sometimes felt life to wane and sink as though her very soul was dying in her bosom, that sometimes life appeared to have no object worth pursuing. “You suffer from ennui then, Miss Churchill, perhaps you would not feel this so much in the company of your friend, Mrs. May, would you?” “Yes, sir, I have felt dull even with Emily.” “Do you suffer from _ennui_ when busied in your garden, your dairy, or at your needle-work?” “Yes, sir, for it seems to me sometimes a sad waste of life to pass it _only_ in feeding the stomach and clothing the back.” Sophie was certainly beginning to be more communicative; the pastor was drawing her out. He looked at her now with more interest than ever, as he said— “And yet, Miss Churchill, there is your friend, Mrs. May, who finds her happiness in her daily life and household duties. How do you account for her habitual cheerfulness; or do you suppose that she is ever a victim to ennui?”