"No, mother; he had to do some visiting, and could not stay. He asked me to say Good-bye, and he will endeavour to send you particulars to-morrow about that case he has been inquiring into for you."
"Where did Mr. Gilmour leave you, Elsie?"
"At the gate, mother dear. He asked me to see him safe off the premises."
A little light laugh and a pretty blush followed this reply.
"Elsie, dear, he comes here a great deal."
"Yes, he seems to like us all very much. He is especially fond of—you and Uncle Edward. You ought to be much flattered, for everybody wants to see him often, and everybody cannot, though none of the poor people are ever forgotten in his round."
"But, my dear, do you think you should have gone to the gate with Mr. Gilmour? You are very young, dear child, and very apt to do just what comes into your head."
"Surely that was not wicked. Indeed, if it had been, Mr. Gilmour would never have asked me to do it; he is so good. Even old Miss Chatterton owns that, and is about to send for a niece to pay her a long visit, because she is pre-eminently fitted for a poor clergyman's wife. She can make sixpence go farther than anybody else's shilling, and has had enormous experience in district visiting and the management of a clothing club. Miss Chatterton thinks Mr. Gilmour should have a wife—in case he should be made a bishop, you know, dear."
Elsie's face was brimming over with fun. All the softness had fled, and mischief was now written thereon in prominent characters.
The mother pictured Miss Chatterton's niece as a youthful copy of her aunt, and thought how such a one would mate with Douglass Gilmour. The result was a hearty laugh, and Elsie's triumph.