“She is very well indeed,”—­replied Cicely—­“But tremendously busy just now with no end of household matters.  The new agent, Mr. Stanways, is going over every yard of the Abbot’s Manor property with her, and she is making any quantity of new rules.  All the tenants’ rents are to be reduced, for one thing—­I know that.  Then there are a lot of London people coming down to stay—­big house-parties in relays,—­I’ve helped write all the invitations.  We shall be simply crowded at the end of June and all July.  We mean to be very gay!”

“And you will like that, of course?” queried Walden, indulgently, while conscious of a little sense of hurt and annoyance, though he knew not why.

“Naturally!” and Cicely shrugged her shoulders carelessly, “Doesn’t the Bible say ’the laughter of fools is like the crackling of thorns under a pot’?  I love to set the pot down and hear the thorns crackle!”

What a weird girl she was!  He looked at her in mute amaze, and she smiled.

“Do come up to tea some afternoon!” she said coaxingly, “We should be so glad to see you!  I know Maryllia would like it—­she thinks you are rather rude, you know!  I’m to be here all the summer, but I’ll try to be good and not say things to vex you.  And as you’re a clergyman, I can tell you all about myself—­like the confessional secrets!  And when you hear some of my experiences, you won’t wonder a bit at my queer ways.  I can’t be like other girls of my age,—­I really can’t!—­my life won’t let me!”

Her tone was one of light banter, but her eyes were wistful and pathetic.  Walden was conscious of a sudden sympathy with this wild little soul of song, and taking her hand, pressed it kindly.

“Wait till I see some of your ‘queer ways,’ as you call them!” he said, with a genial laugh—­“I know you sing very beautifully-is that a ’queer way’?”

Cicely shook her mop-like tresses of hair back over her shoulders with a careless gesture.

“It is—­to people who can’t do it!” she said.  “Surely you know that?  For example, if you preach very well—­I don’t know that you do, because I’ve never heard you, but Maryllia’s housekeeper, Mrs. Spruce, says you’ve got ’a mouth of angels’—­she does really!” and, as Walden laughed, she laughed with him—­“Well, as I say, if you preach very well with a mouth of angels, there must be several parsons round here who haven’t got that mouth, and who say of you, of course metaphorically:  ‘He hath a devil’!  Isn’t it so?”

John hesitated.

“No doubt opinions differ,”—–­he began.

“Oh, of course!—­you can get out of it that way, if you like!” she retorted, gaily—­“You won’t say uncharitable things of the rest of your brethren if you can help it, but you know—­yes, you must know that parsons are as jealous of each other and as nasty to each other as actors, singers, writers, or any other ‘professional’ persons in the world.  In fact, I believe if you were to set two spiteful clergymen nagging at each other, they’d beat any two ’leading ladies’ on the operatic stage, for right-down malice and meanness!”