The Rector of St. Marks

"You have none?" he said, fixing his mild eyes reproachfully upon his

clergyman, who winced a little beneath the gaze. "Then if you have no

intentions, my advice to you is, that you quit it and let the gal

alone, or you'll ruin her, if she ain't sp'ilt already, as some of the

women folks say she is. It don't do no gal any good to have a chap,

and specially a minister, gallyvantin' after her, as I must say you've

been after this one for the last few weeks. She's a pretty little

creature, and I don't blame you for liking her. It makes my old blood

stir faster when she comes purring around me with her soft ways and

winsome face, and so I don't wonder at you; but when you say you've no

intentions, I blame you greatly. You orter have--excuse my plainness.

I'm an old man who likes my minister, and don't want him to go wrong,

and then I feel for her, left alone by all her folks--more's the shame

to them, and more's the harm for you to tangle up her affections, as

you are doing, if you are not in earnest; and I speak for her just as

I should want some one to speak for Anna."

The old man's voice trembled a little here, for it had been a wish of

his that Anna should occupy the rectory, and he had at first felt a

little resentment against the gay young creature who seemed to have

supplanted her; but he was over that now, and in all honesty of heart

he spoke both for Lucy's interest and that of his clergyman. And

Arthur listened to him respectfully, feeling, when he was gone, that

he merited the rebuke, that he had not been guiltless in the matter,

that if he did not mean to marry Lucy Harcourt he must let her alone.

And he would, he said; he would not go to Prospect Hill again for two

whole weeks, nor visit at the cottages where he was sure to find her.

He would keep himself at home; and he did, shutting himself up among

his books, and not even making a pastoral call on Lucy when he heard

that she was sick. And so Lucy came to him, looking dangerously

charming in her green riding-habit--with the scarlet feather sweeping

from her hat. Very prettily she pouted, too, chiding him for his

neglect, and asking why he had not been to see her, nor anybody. There

was the Widow Hobbs, and Mrs. Briggs and those miserable Donelsons--he

had not been near them for a fortnight. What was the reason? she

asked, beating her foot upon the carpet, and tapping the end of her

riding whip upon the sermon he was writing.