“Yes,” observed Mr. Mullen in his tenderest and most ministerial manner, “my ideal is a high one, and when I look into your face, I see reflected all the virtues I would have you reach.  I see you the perfect woman, sharing my sorrows, easing my afflictions—–­”

Intoxicated by his imagination, he turned toward her as though he beheld the living embodiment of his eloquence.

For a minute Molly smiled up at him; then, “I wonder if your mother really locked the cat in the parlour,” she rejoined demurely.

After the birthday dinner, at which Mrs. Mullen talked ceaselessly of Orlando’s excellencies, while she reserved the choicest piece of meat and the fattest dumpling for his plate, Molly tied her cherry-coloured strings under her chin, and started home, with a basket of apple tarts for Reuben on her arm.  At the crossroads Mr. Mullen left her to return to an afternoon Sunday school, and she was about to stop at the ordinary to ask William to see her safely over the pasture, when Abel Revercomb, looking a trifle awkward in his Sunday clothes, came out of the house and held out his hand for the basket.

“I thought you’d be coming home this way after dinner,” he said, turning his throat when he moved.  His hair was brushed flat on his head as was his habit on Sundays, and he wore a vivid purple tie, which he had bought on his last journey to Applegate.  He had never looked worse, nor had he ever felt quite so confident of the entire correctness of his appearance.

As Molly made no reply, but merely fell into step at his side, he inquired, after a moment’s pause, “How did you enjoy the sermon?”

“Oh, I don’t like to be preached at, and I’m sorry for Mr. Mullen’s wife if he expects her to ease everybody’s pains in the parish.  He looked very handsome in church,” she added, “didn’t you think so?”

“I didn’t notice,” he answered ruefully.  “I never pay any attention to the way a man looks, in church or out of it.”

“Well, I do—­and even Judy Hatch does.  She asked me the other day whom I thought the handsomest man in the neighbourhood, and I’m sure she expected me to say Mr. Mullen.”

She dimpled, and his arm went out impulsively toward her.

“But you didn’t, Molly?” he returned.

“Why, of course not—­did you imagine that I should?  I said I thought Mr. Jonathan Gay was the best looking.”

His arm fell to his side, and for a minute or two he walked on in silence.

“I wish I didn’t love you, Molly,” he burst out at last.  “I sometimes almost believe that you’re one of the temptresses Mr. Mullen preached against this morning.  I’ve tried again and again to tear you out of my heart, but it is useless.”

“Yes, it’s useless, Abel,” she answered, melting to dimples.

“I tell myself,” he went on passionately, “that you’re not worth it—­that you’re perfectly heartless—­that you’re only a flirt—­that other men have held your hands, kissed your lips even—–­”