Reynolds Bartram and Eleanor Prency rapidly became so fond of each other that the people of the village predicted an early engagement.  The young man had become quite a regular attendant at church,—­not that he had any religious feeling whatever, but that it enabled him to look at his sweetheart for an hour and a half every Sunday morning and walk home with her afterwards.  Although he had considerable legal practice, it was somehow always his fortune to be on the street when the young lady chanced to be out shopping, and after he joined her there generally ensued a walk which had nothing whatever to do with shopping or anything else except an opportunity for two young people to talk to each other for a long time on subjects which seemed extremely interesting to both.

Nevertheless, there were occasional clouds upon their sky.  The young man who loves his sweetheart better than he loves himself occasionally appears in novels, but in real life he seems to be an unknown quantity, and young Bartram was no exception to the general rule.  In like manner, the young woman who loses sight of her own will, even when in the society of the man whom she thinks the most adorable in the world, is not easy to discover in any ordinary circle of acquaintances.

Bartram and Eleanor met one afternoon, in their customary manner, on the principal street of the village, and walked along side by side for quite a way, finally turning and sauntering through several residence streets, talking with each other on a number of subjects, probably of no great consequence, but apparently very interesting to both of them.  Suddenly, however, it was the young man’s misfortune to see the two Kimper boys on the opposite side of the street, and as he eyed them, his lip curled, and he said,—­

“Isn’t it somewhat strange that your estimable parents are so greatly interested in the father of those wretched scamps?”

“Nothing that my father and mother do, Mr. Bartram,” said Miss Prency, “is at all strange.  They are quite as intelligent as anyone of my acquaintance, I am sure, and more so than most people whom I know, and I have no doubt that their interest in the poor fellow has very good grounds.”

“Perhaps so,” said the young man, with another curl of his lip, which exasperated his companion.  “I sometimes wonder, however, whether men and women, when they reach middle life and have been reasonably successful and happy in their own affairs, are not likely to allow their sympathies to run away with their intelligence.”

“It may be so,” said Eleanor, “among people of your acquaintance, as a class, but I wish you distinctly to except my parents from the rule.”

“But, my dear girl,” said the young man, “your parents are exactly the people to whom I am alluding.”

“Then do me the favor to change the subject of conversation,” said the young lady proudly:  “I never allow my parents to be criticised in my hearing by anyone but myself.”