ball, had grown in warmth and intimacy as soon as Harry had gone.
Robert began to take after Marie, with muffler open and all the gas
on. He was a swell of a parson--utterly damned with good-fortune. Had
an income from the estate of his father, a call from on high, a crest
from Charlemagne, diplomas from college and the seminary, a fine
figure, red cheeks, and 'heavenly eyes.' As to his fatal gift of
beauty, the young ladies were of one mind. They agreed, also, about
the cut of his garments, that were changed several times a day.

"A dashing, masculine, head-punching spirit might have saved him with
all his ballast, but he didn't have it. The Reverend Robert was a good
fellow to everybody--a fairly sound-hearted, decent, handsome fellow,
but not a man. To be that, one has to know things at first
hand--especially work and trouble. He was a second-hand, school-made
thinker. His doctrines came out of the books, but his conduct was
mildly modern. He danced and smoked a little, and played bridge and
golf, and made his visits in a handsome motor-car.

"Marie liked the young man, and she and her mother rode and tramped
about with him almost every day of that summer. Deacon Joe showed
signs of faintness when he spoke of him.

"One day I went up to the Benson homestead and found the old man
sitting on his piazza alone.

"'Where's Marie?' I asked.

"'Off knocking around with the minister,' said Deacon Joe, in a voice
frail with contempt.

"'She might be in worse company,' I suggested.

"'Maybe,' he snapped.

"'What's the matter with the minister?'

"'Nothing,' said the old man, with a chuckle. 'He's a complete
gentleman, complete! So plaguy beautiful that he's a kind of a girl's
plaything. He couldn't milk a cow or dig a hill o' potatoes. Acts kind
o' faint an' sickly to me.'

"The Deacon thoughtfully stirred the roots of his beard with the
fingers of his right hand, and went on with a squint and a feeble tone
which he seemed to think best suited to his subject.

"'Talks so low you can hardly hear him. I have to set with my hand to
my ear every Sunday to make out what he's sayin', an' he prays as if
he had the lung fever. Talks o' hell as though it was a quart o' cold
molasses. That's one reason we ain't no respect for it in this
community. Ay--'es! That's the reason.'

"He squinted his face thoughtfully and resumed with more energy.

"'I like to hear a man get up on his hind legs and holler as they used
to--by