"You think our little frolic last night to be very wrong, I dare say?"
"Oh, no," said the spinster. "I dare say Mr. Maverick and your French relatives would approve."
It was not so much the language as the tone which smote on poor Adèle, and brought the tears welling into her eyes.
Reuben, seeing it all, and forgetful of the good parson's plea, gnawed his lip to keep back certain very harsh utterances.
"Don't think of it, Ady," said he, watching his chance a little later; "the old lady is in one of her blue moods to-day."
"Do you think I did wrong, Reuben?" said Adèle, earnestly.
"I? Wrong, Adèle? Pray, what should I have to say about the right or wrong? and I think the old ladies are beginning to think I have no clear idea of the difference between them."
"You have, Reuben! you have! And, Reuben," (more tenderly,) "I have promised solemnly to live as you thought a little while ago that you would live. And if I were to break my promise, Reuben, I know that you would never renew yours."
"I believe you are speaking God's truth, Adèle," said he.
The summer months passed by, and for Adèle the little table at the parsonage had become as bleak and cheerless as the autumn. Miss Johns maintained the rigid severity of manner, with which she had undertaken to treat the outcast child, with a constancy that would have done credit to a worthier intent. Even the good Doctor was unconsciously oppressed by it, and by the spinster's insistence upon the due proprieties was weaned away from his old tenderness of speech; but every morning and every evening his voice trembled with emotion as he prayed for God's grace and mercy to descend upon all sinners and outcasts.