your life with every desire of your heart!" And saying this, the widow laid the soft tips of one hand on one of the parson's shoulders, and raising herself slightly on tiptoe, kissed him.
"Oh, Mrs. Babcock!" cried the dismayed logician, "what have you done?" But the next moment, the logician giving place to the man, he grasped one of her hands, and murmuring, "May God bless you for that!" seized his hat, and hurried out into the street.
The most careless observer might have been interested in watching his movements as he walked away.
He carried his hat in his hand, forgetting to put it on. Several persons spoke to him on the street, but he did not hear them. He strode a block or two in one direction, and then a block or two in another.
"If she does it again," he muttered to himself—"if she does it again, I'll marry her! . . . Old? . . . I could run a mile in a minute!"
As he was passing the music-store, the dealer called out to him:
"Come in, parson. I've got a present for you."
"A—present—for—me?" repeated the parson, blank with amazement. In his life the little music-dealer had never made him a present.
"Yes, a present," repeated the fortunate vestry-man, whose dry heart, like a small seed-pod, the wind of good-fortune had opened, so that a few rattling germs of generosity dropped out. Opening a drawer behind his counter, he now took out a roll of music. "Here's some new music for your flute," he said. "Accept it with my compliments."
New music for his flute! The parson turned it over
