“As manna?” queried Ursula.
“No, child, as the harvest of toil. By-the-bye”—the old man stood still on the veranda steps, his limp sleeve hanging against his long black coat—“it is a strange coincidence, my preaching to-morrow’s sermon, and Otto coming home to-day. The Sabbath before he first started for Germany I preached on resisting the devil.”
Ursula smiled, a harmless little smile, all to herself.
“I remember it as if it were yesterday,” continued the Dominé, thoughtfully watching a wheeling swallow. “Do you know, Ursula, why Otto van Helmont went away?”
“No,” she responded, quickly inquisitive. “Tell me why.”
“I suppose you think it was some love-story?”
“No,” she said again. “Why should I think? I don’t know.”
“You are not like other girls, Ursula. Most women think everything is a love-story. Come, let us go in.”
“But he is quite old now?” she persisted, with her hand on his arm.
“He is what children call old. I believe he is seventeen years older than Gerard. I have always liked Otto exceedingly, little as I know of him. He is a true, simple-hearted gentleman, is Otto.”