Myrtle’s wardrobe had very little of ornament, such as the modistes of the town would have thought essential to render a young girl like her presentable.  There were a few heirlooms of old date, however, which she had kept as curiosities until now, and which she looked over until she found some lace and other convertible material, with which she enlivened her costume a little for the evening.  As she clasped the antique bracelet around her wrist, she felt as if it were an amulet that gave her the power of charming which had been so long obsolete in her lineage.  At the bottom of her heart she cherished a secret longing to try her fascinations on the young lawyer.  Who could blame her?  It was not an inwardly expressed intention,—­it was the simple instinctive movement to subjugate the strongest of the other sex who had come in her way, which, as already said, is as natural to a woman as it is to a man to be captivated by the loveliest of those to whom he dares to aspire.

Before William Murray Bradshaw and Myrtle Hazard had reached the Parsonage, the girl’s cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes were flashing with a new excitement.  The young man had not made love to her directly, but he had interested her in herself by a delicate and tender flattery of manner, and so set her fancies working that she was taken with him as never before, and wishing that the Parsonage had been a mile farther from The Poplars.  It was impossible for a young girl like Myrtle to conceal the pleasure she received from listening to her seductive admirer, who was trying all his trained skill upon his artless companion.  Murray Bradshaw felt sure that the game was in his hands if he played it with only common prudence.  There was no need of hurrying this child,—­it might startle her to make downright love abruptly; and now that he had an ally in her own household, and was to have access to her with a freedom he had never before enjoyed, there was a refined pleasure in playing his fish,—­this gamest of golden-scaled creatures,—­which had risen to his fly, and which he wished to hook, but not to land, until he was sure it would be worth his while.

They entered the little parlor at the Parsonage looking so beaming, that Olive and Bathsheba exchanged glances which implied so much that it would take a full page to tell it with all the potentialities involved.

“How magnificent Myrtle is this evening, Bathsheba!” said Cyprian Eveleth, pensively.

“What a handsome pair they are, Cyprian!” said Bathsheba cheerfully.

Cyprian sighed.  “She always fascinates me whenever I look upon her.  Is n’t she the very picture of what a poet’s love should be,—­a poem herself,—­a glorious lyric,—­all light and music!  See what a smile the creature has!  And her voice!  When did you ever hear such tones?  And when was it ever so full of life before.”

Bathsheba sighed.  “I do not know any poets but Gifted Hopkins.  Does not Myrtle look more in her place by the side of Murray Bradshaw than she would with Gifted hitched on her arm?”