All this had been the preliminary to the speech which sent Wesley forth for doughnuts, then to his study, ostensibly to finish his lovely sermon, but in reality to think thoughts which made his young forehead, of almost boyhood, frown, and his pleasant mouth droop, then inexplicably smooth and smile.  It was a day which no man in the flush of youth could resist.  That June day fairly rioted in through the open windows.  Mrs. Black’s muslin curtains danced in the June breeze like filmy-skirted nymphs.  Wesley, whose imagination was active, seemed to see forced upon his eager, yet reluctant, eyes, radiant maidens, flinging their white draperies about, dancing a dance of the innocence which preludes the knowledge of love.  Sweet scents came in through the windows, almond scents, honey scents, rose scents, all mingled into an ineffable bouquet of youth and the quest of youth.

Wesley rose stealthily; he got his hat; he tiptoed across the room.  Heavens! how thankful he was for access to the back stairs.  Mrs. Black was sweeping the parlor, and the rear of the house was deserted.  Down the precipitous back stairs crept the young minister, listening to the sound of the broom on Mrs. Black’s parlor carpet.  As long as that regular swish continued he was safe.  Through the kitchen he passed, feeling guilty as he smelled new peas cooking for his delectation on Mrs. Black’s stove.  Out of the kitchen door, under the green hood of the back porch, and he was afield, and the day had him fast.  He did not belong any more to his aspirations, to his high and noble ambitions, to his steadfast purpose in life.  He belonged to the spring of the planet from which his animal life had sprung.  Young Wesley Elliot became one with June, with eternal youth, with joy which escapes care, with the present which has nothing to do with the past or the future, with that day sufficient unto itself, that day dangerous for those whose feet are held fast by the toils of the years.

Wesley sped across a field which was like a field of green glory.  He saw a hollow like a nest, blue with violets, and all his thoughts leaped with irresponsive joy.  He crossed a brook on rocky stones, as if he were crossing a song.  A bird sang in perfect tune with his mood.  He was bound for a place which had a romantic interest for him:  the unoccupied parsonage, which he could occupy were he supplied with a salary and had a wife.  He loved to sit on the back veranda and dream.  Sometimes he had company.  Brookville was a hot little village, with a long line of hills cutting off the south wind, but on that back veranda of the old parsonage there was always a breeze.  Sometimes it seemed mysterious to Wesley, that breeze.  It never failed in the hottest days.  Now that the parsonage was vacant, women often came there with their needlework of an afternoon, and sat and sewed and chatted.  Wesley knew of the custom, and had made them welcome.  But sometimes of a morning a girl came.  Wesley