“In the first place, Alice, it is perfectly absurd for you to say he is a parson; and even if he were,” she continued, after a sharp struggle with her rising laughter.—“even if he were studying with a view to the ministry, I don’t see that he should be made fun of on that account. To my mind,—and you ought to think so too, Alice,—to my mind there is no nobler spectacle than that of a young man deliberately turning his back upon all the allurements that lead astray so many of his comrades, and devoting himself, in the very vigor of his manhood and in all the glory of his youthful strength, to the service of his God. But as for the Don,—Mr. Smith I mean,—I think he is about as far from being a parson as he well could be. Don’t you remember how, when I first met him, I said I was afraid of him? Well, that feeling grows on me. He may have his passions well under control, but, you may depend upon it, they would be terrible if ever they got the mastery over him. Did you ever notice his teeth, how strong and even they are, and as white as ivory? but do you know that, at times, when he smiles in that peculiar way of his, they seem to me to glitter through his moustache like—like—” “Is the Little Thing afraid the Pass’n will bite her? ’Twould be a wicked shepherd to bite a little lamb. And if he ever does such a thing,” she continued, “you go straight and tell your mamma.” And she dropped her head on Alice’s shoulder and stuck out her mouth like a three-year-old child. “Incorrigible scamp!” cried Mary, between laughter-kisses that, like bubbles, exploded as they touched those pouting lips. “But, Alice, will you never be serious?” “Serious?” replied Alice, rising. “I was never more serious in my life. It wouldn’t be right.” “What wouldn’t be right?” “For you to let the Pass’n bite you, without telling your mother,—and with those glittering teeth too! Think of it! Glittering teeth and starry eyes! Imagine! Most improper, upon my word!”—and she gave a toss of her shapely little head. “Mary,” said Alice, dropping again, suddenly, into her laughing friend’s lap,—“Mary, look me in the eyes!” From her fine honest face, as well as from her voice,—both changeful as the dolphin’s hues,—had vanished in an instant all trace of raillery. Mary looked up with a smile half serious, half inquiring. “Well?” “Straight in the eyes!” repeated Alice, lifting her friend’s chin on the tip of her forefinger. “I am looking.” “Mary,” began Alice, leaning forward, and with that same forefinger daintily depressing the tip of Mary’s nose, “are—you—quite—sure—that—you—are—not—” “Not what?” “Falling in love with Mr. Smith?” “Alice, what can have put that idea into your head?” “That sounds more like a question than an answer to a question. Look me in the eyes and say no,—if you can.” “Well, _no_, then!” “No fluttering _here_, when he approaches? no quick breathing when he speaks to you? no pit-a-pat?” “No pit-a-pat,—no _anything_! Will that do?”