"For you, who are satisfied with everything around you, and who greet every new day for its fresh pleasures, I am a dangerous companion, for my discontent is infectious. And though I warn you to go away, you are a suspicion of that which I have sought so long. Your music has lulled me into the only peace I have ever known; but principle—which has always guided me into that which was distasteful—demands that I advise you to keep out of my company, though I cannot help hoping that you will not heed the advice."
"I regret that what you say—that I am contented with everything around me—is not true," the girl replied, "but though I am not, and wish I were, I do not repine as you do. You are the gloomiest man I ever knew."
"Not at all gloomy," he answered. "Listen to my laugh. I will laugh at myself."
Surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard before; and it was contagious, too, for the girl joined him in it, finally, though neither of them knew what they were laughing about.
"I seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, "for I am usually gay. Gay! I am the gayest man in the world; but the organ caused me to forget. It's all over now; let's laugh some more."
And he did laugh again, as gayly as before; a genteel, hearty laugh it was, and the girl joined him, as before, though she could not have told what she was laughing about had her life depended upon it, except that it was very funny that her companion was laughing at nothing. The different objects in the church, including the organ, seemed to look at the pair in good humor because of their gayety; perhaps the organ was feeling gay itself, from recollections of the minstrel band.
"It makes me feel dreadfully gay to think you are going home presently, and that I am to return to my cheerful room in The Locks, the gayest house in the world. Bless you, there is no ghost's walk about that place, and the sunshine seems to be brighter there than anywhere else in the town. I leave it with regret, and return to it with joy; and the wind—I can't tell you what pleasing music the wind makes with the windows and shutters. But if you will let me, I will walk home with you, although I am dying with impatience to return to my usual gayety. I wish it would rain, and keep you here a while longer. I am becoming so funny of late I must break my spirit some way."
It was now dusk, and the girl having signified her willingness to accompany him, they walked out of the church, leaving the old janitor to lock the door, which he probably did with unusual cheerfulness, for Dorris had given him an amount of money that was greater than a month's wages.
"They say here that if Thompson Benton should see a gentleman with his daughter," Dorris said, as they walked along, "that he would give it to him straight. I suppose they mean, by that, that he would tell him to clear out; but I will risk it."
"They say a great many things about father that are unjust," the girl answered, "because he does not trifle. Father is the best man in the world."