"You're just too kind for anythin'! To come an' pay me a visit when you
must be tired out with yesterday's preachin'. An' what a sermon you gave
us in the mornin'--it was too sweet. I had to wink my eyes pretty hard,
an' pull the tears down the back way, or I should have cried right out--
and Mrs. Jones watchin' me all the time under that dreadful bonnet."

Mrs. Hooper had begun with a shade of nervousness in the hurried words;
but the emotion disappeared as she took up a comfortable pose in the
corner of the small sofa.

The Rev. John Letgood, having seated himself in an armchair, looked at
her intently before replying. She was well worth looking at, this Mrs.
Hooper, as she leaned back on the cushions in her cool white dress,
which was so thin and soft and well-fitting that her form could be seen
through it almost as clearly as through water. She appeared to be about
eighteen years old, and in reality was not yet twenty. At first sight
one would have said of her, "a pretty girl;" but an observant eye on the
second glance would have noticed those contradictions in face and in
form which bear witness to a certain complexity of nature. Her features
were small, regular, and firmly cut; the long, brown eyes looked out
confidently under straight, well-defined brows; but the forehead was
low, and the sinuous lips a vivid red. So, too, the slender figure and
narrow hips formed a contrast with the throat, which pouted in soft,
white fulness.

"I am glad you liked the sermon," said the minister, breaking the
silence, "for it is not probable that you will hear many more from me."
There was just a shade of sadness in the lower tone with which he ended
the phrase. He let the sad note drift in unconsciously--by dint of
practice he had become an artist in the management of his voice.