He laughed, and then he begged her pardon if he had been rude.

“Well, I don’t see what there is to laugh at so much.  When you ask me a thing I tell you just what I think, and it seems to set you off in a perfect gale.  Don’t you expect people to say what they think?”

“I think it’s beautiful,” said the young man, going into the gale, and I’ve got to expecting it of you, at any rate.  But—­but it’s always so surprising!  It isn’t what you expect of people generally, is it?”

“I don’t expect it of you,” said Lottie.

“No?” asked Mr. Breckon, in another gale.  “Am I so uncandid?”

“I don’t know about uncandid.  But I should say you were slippery.”

At this extraordinary criticism the young man looked graver than he had yet been able to do since the beginning of their acquaintance.  He said, presently, “I wish you would explain what you mean by slippery.”

“You’re as close as a trap!”

“Really?”

“It makes me tired.”

“If you’re not too tired now I wish you would say how.”

“Oh, you understand well enough.  You’ve got me to say what I think about all sorts of things, and you haven’t expressed your opinion on a single, solitary point?”

Lottie looked fiercely out to sea, turning her face so as to keep him from peering around into it in the way he had.  For that reason, perhaps, he did not try to do so.  He answered, seriously:  “I believe you are partly right.  I’m afraid I haven’t seemed quite fair.  Couldn’t you attribute my closeness to something besides my slipperiness?” He began to laugh again.  “Can’t you imagine my being interested in your opinions so much more than my own that I didn’t care to express mine?”

Lottie said, impatiently, “Oh, pshaw!” She had hesitated whether to say, “Rats!”

“But now,” he pursued, “if you will suggest some point on which I can give you an opinion, I promise solemnly to do so,” but he was not very solemn as he spoke.

“Well, then, I will,” she said.  “Don’t you think it’s very strange, to say the least, for a minister to be always laughing so much?”

Mr. Breckon gave a peal of delight, and answered, “Yes, I certainly do.”  He controlled himself so far as to say:  “Now I think I’ve been pretty open with you, and I wish you’d answer me a question.  Will you?”

“Well, I will—­one,” said Lottie.

“It may be two or three; but I’ll begin with one.  Why do you think a minister ought to be more serious than other men?”

“Why?  Well, I should think you’d know.  You wouldn’t laugh at a funeral, would you?”

“I’ve been at some funerals where it would have been a relief to laugh, and I’ve wanted to cry at some weddings.  But you think it wouldn’t do?”

“Of course it wouldn’t.  I should think you’d know as much as that,” said Lottie, out of patience with him.

“But a minister isn’t always marrying or burying people; and in the, intervals, why shouldn’t he be setting them an example of harmless cheerfulness?”