welled my chest beneath my surplice and chanted my very loudest
in the hope that Jane might hear me. "O ye Showers and Dew, bless ye the
Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever."

Her dreamy blue eyes peered over the edge of the book, the daisies on her
hat nodded; she smiled; I smiled ecstatically back at her; and so two
childish hearts stemmed the flood of praise that rose above the old grey
pillars.

At dinner, over his bread pudding, The Seraph murmured in a throaty
voice--"When you is in love, first you burns yike a furnace, an' en you
shwivel up wiv the cold. It's a vewy bad fing to be in love."

I threw Angel a bitter look. This was his doing. So, contemptuously, had he
treated my confidence, made as man to man. To tell the irresponsible Seraph
of all people!

"What's that, Alexander?" questioned Mrs. Handsomebody, sharply.

"It's love," replied The Seraph, meekly, "you catch it off a girl. John's
got it."

Mrs. Handsomebody sank back in her chair with a groan.

"Alexander," she said it solemnly, "I _tremble_ for your future. You are
not the boy your father was. I tremble for you."

"John," she continued, turning to me, "you will come into the parlour with
me. I wish to have a talk with you. David and Alexander, you may amuse
yourselves with one of my bound volumes of 'The Quiver.'"

I followed her with burning cheeks into the stiff apartment where not only
her eye was riveted upon me, but every glittering eye of every stuffed
bird, to say nothing of the pale fixed gaze of Mr. Handsomebody.

Needless to recall the lecture I received, the probing into my reluctant
heart, the admonition which I could not heed for my fearful watching of
that hard grey face.

But, at last, it was over. I slipped into the hall, closing the door softly
behind me, and listened. Silence abounded. On tiptoe I made my way to the
kitchen. It was clean and empty. I noiselessly opened the back door. On the
doorstep sat The Seraph busily engaged with a caterpillar.

"Where's Angel?" I demanded curtly.

"I fink," breathed The Seraph, stroking the caterpillar the wrong way, and
then looking at his fingers, "I fink that he's witin' to father to tell on
you. So there!"

I waited to hear no more. Casting my care behind me I sped lightly along
the passage between the houses, crossed the Bishop's lawn, and sought Jane
in the garden.

There I stood a moment, dazzled, by the golden August sunshine, the
iridescent spray of the fount