sit she
made you, that summer," said the Skeptic reminiscently. "It has never
occurred to me to long to see her again. She was a mere lusty infant
then. And now she's to be married. How time gets on! What did you say
was the name of the unfortunate chap?"

"'The Reverend Christopher Austen,'" re-read Hepatica from the letter.

"He will need all the fortitude the practice of his profession can have
developed in him, if my recollections can be depended upon to furnish a
basis for the present outlook," said the Skeptic gloomily.

"You don't know that he will, at all," I disputed. "Rhodora was only a
girl when you saw her. She has been four years under Grandmother's
influence since then. Can you imagine that has accomplished nothing?"

The Skeptic shook his head. "That would be like a dove attempting the
education of a hawk. The girl has probably learned not to break into the
conversation of her elders with an axe," he speculated, "nor to walk
ahead of Grandmother when she comes into a room. Any girl learns those
things--in time--unless she is an idiot. But there are other things to
learn. You can't make fine china out of coarse clay."

"But you can make very, very beautiful pottery," cried Hepatica. "And
the lump of clay that came into contact with Grandmother's wheel----"

She paused. Metaphors are sometimes difficult things to handle. The
Philosopher, musing, did not notice that she had not finished.

"It's rather curious that I should be asked," he said. "I never saw
either of them but once."

"You made a great conquest on that one occasion, though," said the
Skeptic.

"Nonsense!" The Philosopher coloured like a boy. "That girl----"

"Not that girl," explained the Skeptic. "The Old Lady. She has never
ceased to ask after you whenever we have seen her or heard from her. As
I remember, you presented her with a bunch of garden flowers as big as
your head, and looked at her as if she were eighteen and the beauty she
undoubtedly once was.--Well, well--a preacher! What has Rhodora become
that she has blinded the eyes of a preacher? Not that their eyes are not
easily blinded!"

"Why do you say 'preacher?'" inquired his wife. "Grandmother's letter
says a young clergyman."

"He's no clergyman," insisted the Skeptic. "He's not even a minister.
He's just a preacher--a raw youth, just out of college--knows as much
about women as a puppy about elephant training. Rhodora probably sang a
hymn at one of his meetings and f