He walked with a long swinging stride, his hands thrust deep into his overcoat pockets. It was difficult to accept the idea of so much physical strength being wasted in the mere business of saying prayers in a girls’ school. Here was a fellow who should have been captain of a ship or a soldier, a leader of forlorn hopes. I felt sure there must be a weakness of some sort in him. Quite possibly it would prove to be a mild estheticism that delighted in the savor of incense and the mournful cadence of choral vespers. He declined a cigar and this rather increased my suspicions. The village hack, filled with young women, passed at a gallop, bound for the station, and we took off our hats. “Christmas holidays,” explained the chaplain. “Practically all the students go home.” “Lucky kids, to have a Christmas to go home to!” “I suppose Mr. Pickering got away last night?” he observed, and my pulse quickened at the name. “I haven’t seen him yet,” I answered guardedly. “Then of course he hasn’t gone!” and these words, uttered in the big clergyman’s deep tones, seemed wholly plausible. There was, to be sure, nothing so unlikely as that Arthur Pickering, executor of my grandfather’s estate, would come to Glenarm without seeing me. “Sister Theresa told me this morning he was here. He called on her and Miss Devereux last night. I haven’t seen him myself. I thought possibly I might run into him in the village. His car’s very likely on the station switch.” “No doubt we shall find him there,” I answered easily. The Annandale station presented an appearance of unusual gaiety when we reached the main street of the village. There, to be sure, lay a private car on the siding, and on the platform was a group of twenty or more girls, with several of the brown-habited Sisters of St. Agatha. There was something a little foreign in the picture; the girls in their bright colors talking gaily, the Sisters in their somber garb hovering about, suggesting France or Italy rather than Indiana. “I came here with the idea that St. Agatha’s was a charity school,” I remarked to the chaplain. “Not a bit of it! Sister Theresa is really a swell, you know, and her school is hard to get into.” “I’m glad you warned me in time. I had thought of sending over a sack of flour occasionally, or a few bolts of calico to help on the good work. You’ve saved my life.” “I probably have. I might mention your good intentions to Sister Theresa.” “Pray don’t. If there’s any danger of meeting her on that platform—” “No; she isn’t coming down, I’m sure. But you ought to know her,—if you will pardon me. And Miss Devereux is charming,—but really I don’t mean to be annoying.” “Not in the least. But under the circumstances,— the will and my probationary year,—you can understand—” “Certainly. A man’s affairs are his own, Mr. Glenarm.”