You always would be, William; but 't was a
shame to put her there."

The parson had locked his hands upon his knees. He looked at them, and
sad lines of recollection deepened in his face.

"I was desperate," he said at length, in a low tone. "I had lost you.
Some men take to drink, but that never tempted me. Besides, I was a
minister. I was just ordained. Mary Ellen, do you remember that day?"

"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember." She had leaned back in her
chair, and her eyes were fixed upon vacancy with the suffused look of
tears forbidden to fall.

"You wore a white dress," went on the parson, "and a bunch of Provence
roses. It was June. Your sister always thought you dressed too gay, but
you said to her, 'I guess I can wear what I want to, to-day of all
times.'"

"We won't talk about her. Yes, I remember."

"And, as God is my witness, I couldn't feel solemn, I was so glad! I was
a minister, and my girl--the girl that was going to marry me--sat down
there where I could see her, dressed in white. I always thought of you
afterwards with that white dress on. You've stayed with me all my life,
just that way."

Mary Ellen put up her hand with a quick gesture to hide her middle-aged
face. With a thought as quick, she folded it resolutely upon the other
in her lap. "Yes, William," she said. "I was a girl then. I wore white
a good deal."

But the parson hardly heeded her. He was far away. "Mary Ellen," he
broke out suddenly, a smile running warmly over his face, and creasing
his dry, hollow cheeks, "do you remember that other sermon, my trial
one? I read it to you, and then I read it to Parson Sibley. And do you
remember what he said?"

"Yes, I remember. I didn't suppose you did." Her cheeks were pink. The
corners of her mouth grew exquisitely tender.

"You knew I did! 'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair;
thou hast doves' eyes.' I took that text because I couldn't think of
anything else all summer. I remember now it seemed to me as if I was in
a garden--always in a garden. The moon was pretty bright, that summer.
There were more flowers blooming than common. It must have been a good
year. And I wrote my sermon lying out in the pine woods, down where you
used to sit hemming on your things. And I thought it was the Church, but
do all I could, it was a girl--or an angel!"

"No, no!" cried Mary Ellen, in bitterness of entreaty.

"And then I read the sermon to you under the pines, and you s