Marion was well, and happily provided for. That was a thing a poor man should always be deeply thankful for, but the sight of “the banquet-hall deserted” gave him a pang as if it had been death, instead of the most living of all moments, that had just passed over his house. He went out to the garden, where he could see that some of the younger guests were still lingering; but it was only Rodie and the boys who were his boon companions that were to be seen. Elsie was not there. He found her late in the afternoon, when he was returning from a long walk. Walks were things that neither he himself nor his many critics and observers would have thought a proper indulgence for a minister. He ought to be going to see somebody, probably “a sick person,” when he indulged in such a relaxation; and there were plenty of outlying invalids who might have afforded him the excuse he wanted, with duty at the end. But he was not capable of duty to-day, and the sick persons remained unvisited. He turned his face towards home, after treading many miles of the roughest country. And it was then, just as he came through the West Port, that he saw Elsie before him, in her white dress, and fortunately alone. The minister’s thoughts had softened during his walk. He no longer felt disposed to take her by the shoulders, to ask angrily what she had said to her mother, and why she had played the spy upon him; but something of his former excitement sprang up in him at the sight of her. He quickened his pace a little, and was soon beside her, laying his hand upon her shoulder. Elsie looked up, not frightened at all, glad to be joined by him. “Oh, father, are you going home?” she said, “and so am I.” “We will walk together, then; which will be a good thing, as I have something to say to you,” he said. Elsie had no possible objection. She looked up at him very pleasantly with her soft brown eyes, and he discovered for the first time that his younger daughter had grown into a bonnie creature, prettier than Marion. To be angry with her was impossible, and how did he know that there was anything to be angry about? “Elsie,” he said, “your mother has been telling me of something you heard me say in my study a long time ago, something that you overheard, which you ought not to have overheard, when you were in the turret, and I did not know you were there.” Elsie grew a little pale at this unexpected address. “Oh, father,” she said, “you knew we were always there.” “Indeed, I knew nothing of the kind. I never supposed for a moment that you would remain to listen to what was said.” “We never did. Oh, never, never!” cried Elsie, now growing as suddenly red. “It is evident you did on this occasion. You heard me talking to myself, and now you have remembered and reported what I said.” “Oh, father!” cried Elsie, with a hasty look of remonstrance, “how can you say I did that?” “What was it, then, you said?”