ty Susan Posey
and various other young women.

The Rev. Mr. Stoker had parted his hair wonderfully that morning, and
made himself as captivating as his professional costume allowed. He had
drawn down the shades of his windows so as to let in that subdued light
which is merciful to crow's-feet and similar embellishments, and wheeled
up his sofa so that two could sit at the table and read from the same
book.

At eleven o'clock he was pacing the room with a certain feverish
impatience, casting a glance now and then at the mirror as he passed it.
At last the bell rang, and he himself went to answer it, his heart
throbbing with expectation of meeting his lovely visitor.

Myrtle Hazard appeared by an envoy extraordinary, the bearer of sealed
despatches. Mistress Kitty Fagan was the young lady's substitute, and
she delivered into the hand of the astonished clergyman the following
missive:

TO THE REV. MR. STOKER.

Reverend Sir,--I shall not come to your study this day. I do not feel
that I have any more need of religious counsel at this time, and I am
told by a friend that there are others who will be glad to hear you talk
on this subject. I hear that Mrs. Hopkins is interested in religious
subjects, and would have been glad to see you in my company. As I cannot
go with her, perhaps Miss Susan Posey will take my place. I thank you
for all the good things you have said to me, and that you have given me
so much of your company. I hope we shall sing hymns together in heaven
some time, if we are good enough, but I want to wait for that awhile, for
I do not feel quite ready. I am not going to see you any more alone,
reverend sir. I think this is best, and I have good advice. I want to
see more of young people of my own age, and I have a friend, Mr. Gridley,
who I think is older than you are, that takes an interest in me; and as
you have many others that you must be interested in, he can take the
place of a father better than you can do. I return to you the hymn-book,
I read one of those you marked, and do not care to read any more.

Respectfully yours,

MYRTLE HAZARD.

The Rev. Mr. Stoker uttered a cry of rage as he finished this awkwardly
written, but tolerably intelligible letter. What could he do about it?
It would hardly do to stab Myrtle Hazard, and shoot Byles Gridley, and
strangle Mrs. Hopkins, every one of which homicides he felt at the moment
that he could have committed. And here he was in a frant