se to send me away from you?'

"'Nay,' he said, quietly, 'I am only speaking for your good. You are
young, Crystal, but you must be conscious, indeed your manner told me
so last night, that you have grace, beauty, and talents, triple gifts
that the world adores. You will be its idol. Make your own election,
then, my child, for you are now a woman. I will never seek to
influence you, I am only a humble priest. What has such a one to do
with a ball-room queen; the world's ways have never been my ways, for
from my youth I have determined that "for me and my house, we will
serve the Lord."'

"His calm steadfast voice awed me; every word seemed to rebuke my
vanity and presumption. Ah, I saw it all now. Raby was disappointed
with my choice; he had hoped--he had hoped otherwise.

"We had reached the end of our walk by this time. Before us was the
poor cottage where Lettie White was dying. I took my hand from Raby's
arm and sat down on the little stone bench by the bee-hives. Raby
seemed to linger a moment, as though he expected me to speak to him,
but I remained silent, and he turned away with a quick sigh and went
into the house. Soon after I heard his voice through the upper window,
where the white curtains were flapping in the breeze, and Lettie's
weak tones answering him.

"Before me was a field of crimson clover; some brown bees were busily
at work in it. There were scarlet poppies too gleaming in the hedge
down below; the waves were lapping on the sands with a soft splash and
ripple; beyond was the sea vast and crystalline, merged in misty blue.
Did I hear it with a dull whirring of repetition, or was it the voice
of my own conscience: 'For me and my house, we will serve the Lord.'

"Raby came out presently, and we walked home, still silent. The
dignity of his office was upon him; his lips were moving, perhaps in
petition for the dying girl.

"When we reached the house he went up to his room. The evening came. I
got out our German books--Raby and I were studying together--and
presently he joined me. In his absence of mind he had forgotten all
about the ball, as I knew he would, and we were both absorbed in
Schiller's magnificent 'Wallenstein' when Margaret entered, looking
what Hugh Redmond called his 'Marguerite of Marguerites,' his pearl
among women.

"Raby started and looked perplexed.

"'What, is it so late? You are dressed, Margaret, and this careless
child has not commenced her toilet. Pray help her, Magg