The Rev. Mr. Wynn’s liberal habits and opinions were not, however, shared by his only daughter, a motherless young lady of eighteen.  Nellie Wynn was in the eye of Excelsior an unapproachable divinity, as inaccessible and cold as her father was impulsive and familiar.  An atmosphere of chaste and proud virginity made itself felt even in the starched integrity of her spotless skirts, in her neatly gloved finger-tips, in her clear amber eyes, in her imperious red lips, in her sensitive nostrils.  Need it be said that the youth and middle age of Excelsior were madly, because apparently hopelessly, in love with her?  For the rest, she had been expensively educated, was profoundly ignorant in two languages, with a trained misunderstanding of music and painting, and a natural and faultless taste in dress.

The Rev. Mr. Wynn was engaged in a characteristic hearty parting with one of his latest converts, upon his own doorstep, with admirable al fresco effect.  He had just clapped him on the shoulder.  “Good-by, good-by, Charley, my boy, and keep in the right path; not up, or down, or round the gulch, you know—­ha, ha!—­but straight across lots to the shining gate.”  He had raised his voice under the stimulus of a few admiring spectators, and backed his convert playfully against the wall.  “You see! we’re goin’ in to win, you bet.  Good-by!  I’d ask you to step in and have a chat, but I’ve got my work to do, and so have you.  The gospel mustn’t keep us from that, must it, Charley?  Ha, ha!”

The convert (who elsewhere was a profane expressman, and had become quite imbecile under Mr. Wynn’s active heartiness and brotherly horse-play before spectators) managed, however, to feebly stammer with a blush something about “Miss Nellie.”

“Ah, Nellie.  She, too, is at her tasks—­trimming her lamp—­you know, the parable of the wise virgins,” continued Father Wynn hastily, fearing that the convert might take the illustration literally.  “There, there—­good-by.  Keep in the right path.”  And with a parting shove he dismissed Charley and entered his own house.

That “wise virgin,” Nellie, had evidently finished with the lamp, and was now going out to meet the bridegroom, as she was fully dressed and gloved, and had a pink parasol in her hand, as her father entered the sitting-room.  His bluff heartiness seemed to fade away as he removed his soft, broad-brimmed hat and glanced across the too fresh-looking apartment.  There was a smell of mortar still in the air, and a faint suggestion that at any moment green grass might appear between the interstices of the red-brick hearth.  The room, yielding a little in the point of coldness, seemed to share Miss Nellie’s fresh virginity, and, barring the pink parasol, set her off as in a vestal’s cell.

“I supposed you wouldn’t care to see Brace, the expressman, so I got rid of him at the door,” said her father, drawing one of the new chairs towards him slowly, and sitting down carefully, as if it were a hitherto untried experiment.