"It may possibly be some relation of yours, Miss Maverick," said the young minister.
"Do you recall the first name?" said Rose.
Mr. Catesby hesitated in that interesting way in which lovers are wont to hesitate. No, he did not remember; but he was a jovial, generous-hearted man, (he had heard his uncle often describe him,) who must be now some fifty or sixty years old.—"Frank Maverick, to be sure; I have the name."
"Why, it is my father," said Adèle with a swift, happy rush of color to her face.
"O no, Miss Maverick," said the young Catesby with a smile, "that is quite impossible. The gentleman of whom I speak, and my uncle visited him only three years ago, is a confirmed bachelor, and he had rallied him, I remember, upon never having married."
The color left the cheeks of Adèle.
"Frank, did you say?" persisted Rose.
"Frank was the name," said the innocent young clergyman; "and he was a merchant, if I remember rightly, somewhere upon the Mediterranean."
"It's very strange," said Rose, turning to Adèle.
And Adèle, all her color gone, had the fortitude to pat Rose lovingly upon the shoulder, and to say, with a forced smile, "Life is very strange, Rose."