“I’ll not change it then,” said Mr. Dudley.  “I’ll make Esther use it to mortify her pride.”

“Better make it over to the poor of the parish,” said the professor; “you will get no thanks for it even from them.”

Mr. Dudley laughed as though it were no affair of his, and in fact he never sat in his pew, and never expected to do so; he had no taste for church-going.  A lawyer in moderate practice, with active interest in public affairs, when the civil war broke out he took a commission as captain in a New York regiment, and, after distinguishing himself, was brought home, a colonel, with a bullet through his body and a saber cut across his head.  He recovered his health, or as much of it as a man can expect to recover after such treatment, and went back to the law, but coming by inheritance into a property large enough to make him indifferent to his profession, and having an only child whose mother was long since dead, he amused the rest of his life by spoiling this girl.  Esther was now twenty-five years old, and for fifteen years had been absolute mistress of her father’s house.  Her Aunt Sarah, known in New York as Mrs. John Murray of 53d Street, was the only person of whom she was a little—­a very little—­afraid.  Of her Cousin George she was not in the least afraid, although George Strong spoke with authority in the world when he cared to speak at all.  He was rich, and his professorship was little more to him than a way of spending money.  He had no parents, and no relations besides the Dudleys and the Murrays.  Alone in the world, George Strong looked upon himself as having in Esther a younger sister whom he liked, and a sort of older sister, whom he also liked, in his Aunt Sarah.

When, after lunching with the Dudleys, Professor Strong walked down Fifth Avenue to his club, he looked, to the thousand people whom he passed, like what he was, an intelligent man, with a figure made for action, an eye that hated rest, and a manner naturally sympathetic.  His forehead was so bald as to give his face a look of strong character, which a dark beard rather helped to increase.  He was a popular fellow, known as George by whole gangs of the roughest miners in Nevada, where he had worked for years as a practical geologist, and it would have been hard to find in America, Europe, or Asia, a city in which some one would not have smiled at the mention of his name, and asked where George was going to turn up next.

He kept his word that evening with his friend Hazard.  At nine o’clock he was at the house, next door to St. John’s church, where the new clergyman was trying to feel himself at home.  In a large library, with book-cases to the ceiling, and books lying in piles on the floor; with pictures, engravings and etchings leaning against the books and the walls, and every sort of literary encumbrance scattered in the way of heedless feet; in the midst of confusion confounded, Mr. Hazard was stretched on a sofa trying