Here Theron’s fluency came to a sharp halt.  There were adverbs enough and to spare on the point of his pen, but the right one was not easy to come at.  “Gratefully,” “faithfully,” “sincerely,” “truly”—­each in turn struck a false note.  He felt himself not quite any of these things.  At last he decided to write just the simple word “yours,” and then wavered between satisfaction at his boldness, dread lest he had been over-bold, and, worst of the lot, fear that she would not notice it one way or the other—­all the while he sealed and addressed the letter, put it carefully in an inner pocket, and got his hat.

There was a moment’s hesitation as to notifying the kitchen of his departure.  The interests of domestic discipline seemed to point the other way.  He walked softly through the hall, and let himself out by the front door without a sound.

Down by the canal bridge he picked out an idle boy to his mind—­a lad whose aspect appeared to promise intelligence as a messenger, combined with large impartiality in sectarian matters.  He was to have ten cents on his return; and he might report himself to his patron at the bookstore yonder.

Theron was grateful to the old bookseller for remaining at his desk in the rear.  There was a tacit compliment in the suggestion that he was not a mere customer, demanding instant attention.  Besides, there was no keeping “Thurston’s” out of conversations in this place.

Loitering along the shelves, the young minister’s eye suddenly found itself arrested by a name on a cover.  There were a dozen narrow volumes in uniform binding, huddled together under a cardboard label of “Eminent Women Series.”  Oddly enough, one of these bore the title “George Sand.”  Theron saw there must be some mistake, as he took the book down, and opened it.  His glance hit by accident upon the name of Chopin.  Then he read attentively until almost the stroke of eleven.

“We have to make ourselves acquainted with all sorts of queer phases of life,” he explained in self-defence to the old bookseller, then counting out the money for the book from his lean purse.  He smiled as he added, “There seems something almost wrong about taking advantage of the clergyman’s discount for a life of George Sand.”

“I don’t know,” answered the other, pleasantly.  “Guess she wasn’t so much different from the rest of ’em—­except that she didn’t mind appearances.  We know about her.  We don’t know about the others.”

“I must hurry,” said Theron, turning on his heel.  The haste with which he strode out of the store, crossed the street, and made his way toward Thurston’s, did not prevent his thinking much upon the astonishing things he had encountered in this book.  Their relation to Celia forced itself more and more upon his mind.  He could recall the twinkle in her eye, the sub-mockery in her tone, as she commented with that half-contemptuous “Yes—­George something!” upon his blundering ignorance.