“Ah!” said Carriston in a satisfied tone; “I am glad of that, for I like that young man very much. I am sure he is an honorable, straightforward fellow.” “You are inconsistent. His life is as mysterious as that of Caliphronas, yet you trust the one and mistrust the other.” “I do; it is a matter of instinct. Well, here is your Helena; I hope you will find the original as beautiful as the picture.” “I hope so too,” answered Maurice, restoring the photograph to his pocket. “By the way,” observed the Rector abruptly, “what about Eunice?” “Oh, she will not mourn me, for she has already consoled herself with Crispin.” “Humph! I thought as much; and what does your aunt say?” “She says nothing because she knows nothing.” “Do you think that is wise?” “No, I do not; so I am going to ask Crispin to explain who he is, what he is, and all about himself, before he leaves with me for the East. If his replies are satisfactory, I will try and persuade my dear aunt to consent to the match; but you may depend upon it, my dear Rector, if I find anything wrong with our poet, I will do my best to prevent his marriage with my cousin.” “That is as it should be, but I fancy you will find Crispin an honest man.” “You seem quite taken with him.” “Yes; I am curiously drawn to that young man. Why, I do not know; but, from the frequent conversations I have had with him, he seems very honest and good-hearted, whereas your handsome Greek is, I am convinced, a worthless scamp.” “Well, we will see how your predictions are fulfilled. But I must be off,” continued Maurice, glancing at his watch, “it is past one o’clock. Will you not come over to luncheon with me?” “What! and leave my roses, which need water in this hot sun! Go away, sir, and don’t ask impossibilities.” Maurice laughed and went away, while the Rector returned to his roses, and thought over the interview. He was doubtful as to the result of Maurice’s quest for a wife, but, knowing the sterling good sense and honorable nature of his pupil, judged it best to let him take his own way. “Everyman must dree his weird,” said Carriston, watering-pot in hand. “However this journey turns out, it will do Maurice good, for if it does not gain him a wife, it will at least banish the evil spirit which is spoiling his youth.” Meanwhile the object of this soliloquy was striding up the avenue of the Grange at a rapid pace, and whistling gayly, out of sheer light-heartedness. Never before had he felt so happy, a circumstance which suddenly made him pause in his lilting, as he thought of the saying of an old Scotch nurse. “I hope I am not fey,” he said to himself; “surely this joy does not prognosticate sorrow. No; I will not look on it in that gloomy light. I am going in search of Helen,—Cœlebs in search of a wife,—and if I find her as lovely as she seems to be, why, then”—