“You shouldn’t be a country gentleman, Maurice,” said Mr. Carriston, after the usual greetings had been exchanged. “The occupation of a monk would suit you better.” Maurice said nothing, but sighed wearily. “Come now, my dear lad; if you sigh in that fashion, I shall suspect you of being a lover, in spite of your asseveration to the contrary.” “A man can’t marry his aunt, and as Crispin wants to marry Eunice, no one is left for me but my honorable relation.” “Try Mukle.” “Too much of a grenadier.” “I think you are the same—in height,” said the Rector, looking approvingly at his tall friend. “If old Father Fritz had seen the pair of ye, I think he would have insisted upon the marriage, so as to breed a race of giants. But, dear, dear! what nonsense we talk! Come and sit down, my lad. Will you smoke?” “No, thank you, sir. I’m tired of smoking.” “Maurice, if you go on in this fashion, I will be angry with you. It’s a beautiful day, so you ought to have a beautiful smile on your face. Listen to that lark! Does not its gush of song thrill your heart? Admire my roses! Where, even in the gorgeous East, will you see such splendor? The birds sing, the sun shines, the flowers bloom, and yet you are as discontented as if you were shut up between four bare walls. Maurice, I’m really and truly ashamed of your ingratitude to God for His many gifts.” Maurice made no reply, but punched holes in the gravel with his walking-stick. “Now you wait here, my lad,” said the Rector, recovering breath after his little lecture, “and see if yon lark will sing you into a better frame of mind. It may be the David to your Saul, and drive the evil spirit out of you. I am going away to wash my hands, which are somewhat grubby with my gardening, and will return in a few moments.” Off went the Rector with a light step, as springy as that of a young man, and Maurice looked after him in sheer envy of such light-heartedness. “Why cannot I be happy like that?” he sighed, baring his head to the cool breeze.