“That is exactly what I wish to have every one believe you to be, Mercy,” Stephen would reply with emphasis.  “That is the only safe course.  Once let people begin to associate our names together, and there is no limit to the things they would say.  We cannot be too careful.  That is one thing you must let me be the judge of, dear.  You cannot understand it as I do.  So long as I am without the right or the power to protect you, my first duty is to shield you from any or all gossip linking our names together.”

Mercy felt the justice of this; and yet to her there seemed also a sort of injustice involved in it.  She felt stung often, and wounded, in spite of all reasoning with herself that she had no cause to do so, that Stephen was but doing right.  So inevitable and inextricable are pains and dilemmas when once we enter on the paths of concealment.

Parson Dorrance was introduced to Mercy by Mrs. Hunter, a young married woman, who was fast becoming her most intimate friend.  Mrs. Hunter’s father had been settled as the minister of a church in Penfield, in the same year that Parson Dorrance had taken his professorship in Danby, and the two men had been close friends from that day till the day of Mr. Adams’s death.  Little Lizzy Adams had been Parson Dorrance’s pet when she lay in her cradle.  He had baptized her; and, when she came to woman’s estate, he had performed the ceremony which gave her in marriage to Luke Hunter, the most promising young lawyer in the county.

She had always called Parson Dorrance her uncle, and her house in Penfield was his second home.  It had been Mrs. Hunter’s wish for a long time that he should see and know her new friend, Mercy.  But Mercy was very shy of seeing the man for whom she felt such reverence, and had steadily refused to meet him.  It was therefore with a certain air of triumphant satisfaction that Mrs. Hunter led Parson Dorrance to the rock where Mercy was sitting, and exclaimed,—­

“There, Uncle Dorrance! here she is!”

Parson Dorrance did not wait for any farther introduction; but; holding out both his hands to Mercy, he said in a deep, mellow voice, and with a tone which had a benediction in it,—­

“I am very glad to see you, Mrs. Philbrick.  My child Lizzy here has been telling me about you for a long time.  You know I’m the same as a father to her; so you can’t escape me, if you are going to be her friend.”

Mercy looked up half-shamefacedly and half-archly, and replied,—­

“It was not that I wanted to escape you; but I wanted you to escape me.”  She perceived that the Parson had been told of her refusals to meet him.  Then they all sat down again on the jutting rock; and Mercy, leaning forward with her hands clasped on her knees, fixed her eyes on Parson Dorrance’s face, and drank in every word that he said.  He had a rare faculty of speaking with the greatest simplicity, both of language and manner.  It was impossible