When, however, the entire membership of the church aroused to the fact that work was to be done, and Judge Prency and other solid citizens began to take part in the church work, Bartram rested from his efforts and began again to spend his evenings at the home of the young woman whom he most admired.  A change seemed to have come over others as well as himself.  Mrs. Prency greeted him more kindly than ever, but Eleanor seemed different.  She was not as merry, as defiant, or as sympathetic as of old.  Sometimes there was a suggestion of old times in her manner, but suddenly the young woman would again become reserved and distant.

One evening, when she had begun to rally him about something, and quickly lapsed into a different and languid manner, Bartram said,—­

“Eleanor, nothing seems as it used to be between you and me.  I wish I knew what was wrong in me.”

The girl suddenly interested herself in the contents of an antiquated photograph album.

“I must have become dreadfully uninteresting,” he continued, “if you prefer the faces in that album, of which I’ve heard you make fun time and again.  Won’t you tell me what it is?  Don’t be afraid to talk plainly:  I can stand anything—­from you.”

“Oh, nothing,” said Eleanor, continuing to pretend interest in the pictures.

“‘Nothing’ said in that tone always means something—­and a great deal of it.  Have I said or done anything to offend you?”

“No,” said Eleanor, with a sigh, closing the book and folding her hands, “only—­I didn’t suppose you ever could become a prosy, poky old church-member.”

The reply was a laugh, so merry, hearty, and long that Eleanor looked indignant, until she saw a roguish twinkle in Bartram’s eyes; then she blushed and looked confused.

“Please tell me what I have said or done that was poky or prosy,” asked Bartram.  “We lawyers have a habit of asking for proof as well as charges.  I give you my word, my dear girl, that never in all my previous life did I feel so entirely cheerful and good-natured as I do nowadays.  I have nothing now to trouble my conscience, or spoil my temper, or put me out of my own control, as used frequently to happen.  I never before knew how sweet and delightful it was to live and meet my fellow-beings,—­particularly those I love.  I can laugh at the slightest provocation now, instead of sometimes feeling ugly and saying sharp things.  Every good and pleasant thing in life I enjoy more than ever; and as you, personally, are the very best thing in life, you seem a thousand times dearer and sweeter to me than ever before.  Perhaps you will laugh at me for saying so, but do you know that I, who have heretofore considered myself a little better than any one else in the village, am now organizing a new base-ball club and a gymnasium association, and also am trying to get enough subscribers to build a toboggan slide?  I never was in such high spirits and in such humor for fun.”