"Just think how romantic that would be!" the girl laughed; "and I
could write your memoir and tell all I knew about you. Tell me about
yourself, Arthur--I don't mean for the memoir, but because I want to
know the news."

"There isn't any, Helen, except that I finished college last spring,
as I wrote you, and I'm teaching school at Hilltown."

"And you like it?"

"I hate it; but I have to keep alive, to try to be a poet. And that
is the news about myself."

"Except," added Helen, "that you walked twelve miles this glorious
Saturday morning to welcome me home, which was beautiful. And of
course you'll stay over Sunday, now you're here; I can invite you
myself, you know, for I've come home to take the reins of
government. You never saw such a sight in your life as my poor
father has made of our house; he's got the parlor all full of those
horrible theological works of his, just as if God had never made
anything beautiful! And since I've been away that dreadful Mrs. Dale
has gotten complete charge of the church, and she's one of those
creatures that wouldn't allow you to burn a candle in the organ
loft; and father never was of any use for quarreling about things."
(Helen's father, the Reverend Austin Davis, was the rector of the
little Episcopal church in the town of Oakdale just across the
fields.) "I only arrived last night," the girl prattled on, venting
her happiness in that way instead of singing; "but I hunted up two
tallow candles in the attic, and you shall see them in church
to-morrow. If there's any complaint about the smell, I'll tell Mrs.