The Rector of St. Marks

"But why did she refuse him?" he wished he knew, and ere he slept he

had resolved to study Anna Ruthven closely, and ascertain, if

possible, the motive which prompted her to discard a man like Arthur

Leighton.

The next day brought the Hetherton party, all but Lucy Harcourt, who,

Fanny laughingly said, was just now suffering from clergyman on the

brain, and, as a certain cure for the disease, had turned my Lady

Bountiful, and was playing the pretty patroness to all Mr. Leighton's

parishioners, especially a Widow Hobbs, whom she had actually taken to

ride in the carriage, and to whose ragged children she had sent a

bundle of cast-off party dresses; and the tears ran down Fanny's

cheeks as she described the appearance of the elder Hobbs, who came to

church with a soiled pink silk skirt, her black, tattered petticoat

hanging down below and one of Lucy's opera hoods upon her head.

"And the clergyman on the brain? Does he appreciate the situation? I

have an interest there. He is an old friend of mine," Thornton

Hastings asked.

He had been an amused listener to Fanny's gay badinage, laughing

merrily at the idea of Lucy's taking old women out to air and clothing

her children in party dresses. His opinion of Lucy, as she had said,

was that she was a pretty, but frivolous, plaything, and it showed

upon his face as he asked the question he did, watching Anna furtively

as Fanny replied: "Oh, yes, he is certainly smitten, and I must say I never saw Lucy so

thoroughly in earnest. Why, she really seems to enjoy traveling all

over Christendom to find the hovels and huts, though she is mortally

afraid of the smallpox, and always carries with her a bit of chloride

of lime as a disinfecting agent. I am sure she ought to win the

parson. And so you know him, do you?"

"Yes; we were in college together, and I esteem him so highly that,

had I a sister, there is no man living to whom I would so readily give

her as to him."

He was looking now at Anna, whose face was very pale, and who pressed

a rose she held so tightly that the sharp thorns pierced her flesh,

and a drop of blood stained the whiteness of her hand.

"See, you have hurt yourself," Mr. Hastings said. "Come to the water

pitcher and wash the stain away."

She went with him mechanically, and let him hold her hand in his

while he wiped off the blood with his own handkerchief, treating her

with a tenderness for which he could hardly account himself. He pitied

her, he said, suspecting that she had repented of her rashness, and

because he pitied her he asked her to ride with him that day after the

fast bays, of which he had written to Arthur. Many admiring eyes were

cast after them as they drove away, and Mrs. Hetherton whispered

softly to Mrs. Meredith: "A match in progress, I see. You have done well for your charming

niece."