studies.  He was wondering as he sat there if he could not walk home with her that night, if by chance any man would be in waiting for her.  How he hated that imaginary man.  He glanced around, and as he did so, the door opened softly, and Harry Edgham, Maria’s father, entered.  He was very late, but he had waited in the vestibule, in order not to attract attention, until the people began singing a hymn, “Jesus, Lover of my Soul,” to the tune of “When the Swallows Homeward Fly.”  He was a distinctly handsome man.  He looked much younger than Maria’s mother, his wife.  People said that Harry Edgham’s wife might, from her looks, have been his mother.  She was a tall, dark, rather harsh-featured woman.  In her youth she had had a beauty of color; now that had passed, and she was sallow, and she disdained to try to make the most of herself, to soften her stern face by a judicious arrangement of her still plentiful hair.  She strained it back from her hollow temples, and fastened it securely on the top of her head.  She had a scorn of fashions in hair or dress except for Maria.  “Maria is young,” she said, with an ineffable expression of love and pride, and a tincture of defiance, as if she were defying her own age, in the ownership of the youth of her child.  She was like a rose-bush which possessed a perfect bud of beauty, and her own long dwelling upon the earth could on account of that be ignored.  But Maria’s father was different.  He was quite openly a vain man.  He was handsome, and he held fast to his youth, and would not let it pass by.  His hair, curling slightly over temples boyish in outlines, although marked, was not in the least gray.  His mustache was carefully trimmed.  After he had seated himself unobtrusively in a rear seat, he looked around for his daughter, who saw him with dismay.  “Now,” she thought, her chances of Wollaston Lee walking home with her were lost.  Father would go home with her.  Her mother had often admonished Harry Edgham that when Maria went to meeting alone, he ought to be in waiting to go home with her, and he obeyed his wife, generally speaking, unless her wishes conflicted too strenuously with his own.  He did not in the least object to-night, for instance, to dropping late into the prayer-meeting.  There were not many people there, and all the windows were open, and there was something poetical and sweet about the atmosphere.  Besides, the singing was unusually good for such a place.  Above all the other voices arose Ida Slome’s sweet soprano.  She sang like a bird; her voice, although not powerful, was thrillingly sweet.  Harry looked at her as she sang, and thought how pretty she was, but there was no disloyalty to his wife in the look.  He was, in fact, not that sort of man.  While he did not love his Abby with utter passion, all the women of the world could not have swerved him from her.

Harry Edgham came of perhaps the best old family in that vicinity, Edgham itself had been named for it, and while he partook of that degeneracy which comes to the descendants of the large old families, while it is as inevitable that they should run out, so to speak, as flowers which have flourished too many years in a garden, whose soil they have exhausted, he had not lost the habit of rectitude of his ancestors.  Virtue was a hereditary trait of the Edghams.