the matter off
lightly.

"Such as taking to myself the lady up-stairs!" exclaimed John. "No, but
I must part with her; if one of you goes, the other must."

This was absolutely the first time the matter had even been hinted at
between them, and yet Miss Christie's whole conduct was arranged with
reference to it, and John always fully counted on her protective
presence.

"Ay, but if I might give myself the liberty of a very old friend," she
answered, straightway taking the ell because he had given her an inch,
"there is something I would like to say to ye."

"What would you like to say?"

"Well, I would like to say that if a man is so more than commonly a fine
man, that it's just a pleasure to set one's eyes on him, and if he's
well endowed with this world's gear, it's a strange thing if there is no
excellent, desirable, and altogether sweet young woman ready, and even
sighing, for him."

"Humph!" said John.

"I don't say there is," proceeded Miss Christie; "far be it from me."

"I hate red hair," answered the attractive widower.

"It's just like a golden oriole. It isn't red at all," replied Miss
Christie dogmatically.

"_I_ call it red," said John Mortimer.

"The painters consider it the finest colour possible," continued the
absent lady's champion.

"Then let them paint her," said John; "but--I shall not marry her;
besides," he chose to say, "I know if I asked her she would not have me:
therefore, as I don't mean to ask her, I shall not be such an unmannerly
dog as to discuss her, further than to say that I do not wish to marry a
woman who takes such a deep and sincere interest in herself."

"Why, don't we all do that? I am sure _I_ do."

"You naturally feel that you are the most important and interesting of
all God's creatures _to yourself_. You do not therefore think that you
must be so to _me_. Our little lives, my dear lady, should not turn
round upon themselves, and as it were make a centre of their own axis.
The better lives revolve round some external centre; everything depends
on that centre, and how much or how many we carry round with us besides
ourselves. Now, my father's centre is and always has been Almighty
God--our Father and his. His soul is as it were drawn to God and lost,
as a centre to itself in that great central soul. He looks at
everything--I speak it reverently--from God's high point of view."

"Ay, but she's a good woman," said Miss Christie, trying to adopt his
religious t