“It’s my sermon, Helen,” said Mr. Davis.

“I know it,” said Helen, gravely.

“But it must be done for to-morrow,” protested the other.

“Half your congregation is going to be so excited about two tallow candles that it won’t know what you preach about,” answered the girl, swinging herself on the arm of the chair; “and I’m going to sing for the other half, and so they won’t care either.  And besides, Daddy, I’ve got news to tell you; you’ve no idea what a good girl I’ve been.”

“How, my love?”

“I went to see Mrs. Woodward.”

“You didn’t!”

“Yes; and it was just to show you how dutiful I’m going to be.  Daddy, I felt so sorry for the poor old lady; it is so beautiful to know that one is doing good and bringing happiness into other people’s lives!  I think I’ll go and see her often, and carry her something nice if you’ll let me.”

Helen said all that as gravely as a judge; but Mr. Davis was agreeing so delightedly that she feared she was carrying the joke too far.  She changed the subject quickly.

“Oh, Daddy!” she cried, “I forgot to tell you—­I met a genius to-day!”

“A genius?” inquired the other.

“Yes,” said Helen, “and I’ve been walking around with him all morning out in the woods!  Did you never hear that every place like that has a genius?”

“Yes,” assented Mr. Davis, “but I don’t understand your joke.”

“This was the genius of Hilltown High School,” laughed Helen.

“Oh, Arthur!”

“Yes; will you believe it, the dear boy had walked all the way from there to see me; and he waited out by the old seat at the spring!”

“But where is he now?”

“I don’t know,” said Helen.  “It’s very queer; I left him to go see Mrs. Woodward.  He didn’t go with me,” she added, “I don’t believe he felt inclined to charity.”

“That is not like Arthur,” said the other.

“I’m going to take him in hand, as becomes a clergyman’s daughter,” said Helen demurely; “I’m going to be a model daughter, Daddy—­just you wait and see!  I’ll visit all your parishioners’ lawn-parties and five o’clock teas for you, and I’ll play Handel’s Largo and Siegfried’s Funeral March whenever you want to write sermons.  Won’t you like that?”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Davis, dubiously.

“Only I know you’ll make blots when I come to the cymbals,” said Helen; and she doubled up her fists and hummed the passage, and gave so realistic an imitation of the cymbal-clashes in the great dirge that it almost upset the chair.  Afterwards she laughed one of her merriest laughs and kissed her father on the forehead.

“I heard it at Baireuth,” she said, “and it was just fine!  It made your flesh creep all over you.  And oh, Daddy, I brought home a souvenir of Wagner’s grave!”

“Did you?” asked Mr. Davis, who knew very little about Wagner.

“Yes,” said Helen, “just a pebble I picked up near it; and you ought to have seen the custom-house officer at the dock yesterday when he was going through my trunks.  ‘What’s this, Miss?’ he asked; I guess he thought it was a diamond in the rough.  ’Oh, that’s from Wagner’s grave,’ I said.  And what do you think the wretch did?”