by the warmth of his protestation.
Actually Mr. Mullen had contributed a decided piquancy to the episode.

"I'm afraid, Blossom," he said after a moment, "that I am beginning
to be a little jealous of the Reverend Mullen. By the way, what is the
Christian name of the paragon?"

"Orlando, sir."

"Ye Gods! The horror grows! Describe him to me, but paint him mildly if
you wish me to survive it."

For a minute she thought very hard, as though patiently striving to
invoke a mental image.

"He's a little taller than you, but not quite--not quite so broad."

"Thank you, you _have_ put it mildly."

"He has the most beautiful curly hair--real chestnut--that grows in two
peaks high on his forehead. His eyes are grey and his mouth is small,
with the most perfect teeth. He doesn't wear any moustache, you see, to
hide them, and they flash a great deal when he preaches---"

"Hold on!"

"I beg you pardon, sir."

"I mean that I am overcome. I am mentally prostrated before such
perfections. Blossom, you are in love with him."

"Oh, no, sir; but I do like to watch him in the pulpit. He gesticulates
so beautifully."

"And now--speak truth and spare not--how do I compare with him?"

"Oh, Mr. Jonathan, you are so different!"

"Do you imply that I am ugly, Blossom?"

"Why, no--not ugly. Indeed I didn't mean that."

"But I'm not so handsome as Reverend Orlando?--now, confess it."

She blushed, and he thought her confusion the most charming he had ever
seen.

"Well, perhaps you aren't quite so--so handsome; but there's something
about you, sir," she added eagerly, "that reminds me of him."

"By Jove! You don't mean it!"

"I can't tell just what it is, but it is something. You both look as
though you'd lived in a city and had learned to wear your Sunday clothes
without remembering that they are your Sunday clothes. Of course, your
hair doesn't curl like his," she added honestly, "and I doubt if you'd
look nearly so well in the pulpit."

"I'm very sure I shouldn't, but Blossom---"

"What, Mr. Jonathan?"

"Do you think you will ever like me as well as you like Mr. Mullen?"

His gay and intimate smile awaited her answer, and in the pause, he
stretched out his hand and laid it on her large round arm a little
above the elbow. The flush deepened in her face, and he felt a slight
trembling under his fingers like the breast of a frightened bird.

"Blossom," he repeated, half mocking, half tender, "do you think you
will