ve been a match for any fellow. That old
Silence Withers would do just as her minister told her,--even chance
whether she gives it to the Parson-factory, or marries Bellamy Stoker,
and gives it to him after his wife's dead. He'd take it if he had to take
her with it. Earn his money, hey, Master Gridley?"

"Why, you don't seem to think very well of the Rev. Joseph Bellamy
Stoker?" said Mr. Gridley, smiling.

"Think well of him? Too fond of using the Devil's pitchfork for my
fancy! Forks over pretty much all the world but himself and his lot
into--the bad place, you know; and toasts his own cheese with it with
very much the same kind of comfort that other folks seem to take in that
business. Besides, he has a weakness for pretty saints--and sinners.
That's an odd name he has. More belle amie than Joseph about him, I
rather guess!"

The old professor smiled again. "So you don't think he believes all the
mediaeval doctrines he is in the habit of preaching, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"No, sir; I think he belongs to the class I have seen described
somewhere. 'There are those who hold the opinion that truth is only safe
when diluted,--about one fifth to four fifths lies,--as the oxygen of the
air is with its nitrogen. Else it would burn us all up.'"

Byles Gridley colored and started a little. This was one of his own
sayings in "Thoughts on the Universe." But the young man quoted it
without seeming to suspect its authorship.

"Where did you pick up that saying, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"I don't remember. Some paper, I rather think. It's one of those good
things that get about without anybody's knowing who says 'em. Sounds like
Coleridge."

"That's what I call a compliment worth having," said Byles Gridley to
himself, when he got home. "Let me look at that passage."

He took down "Thoughts on the Universe," and got so much interested,
reading on page after page, that he did not hear the little tea-bell, and
Susan Posey volunteered to run up to his study and call him down to tea.

CHAPTER V

THE TWINS.

Miss Suzan Posey knocked timidly at his door and informed him that tea
was waiting. He rather liked Susan Posey. She was a pretty creature,
slight, blonde, a little too light, a village beauty of the second or
third grade, effective at picnics and by moonlight,--the kind of girl
that very young men are apt to remember as their first love. She had a
taste for poetry, and an admiration of poets; but, what was bette