"What is there to laugh at?" Stella asked.

"I declare, my dear, there is something absolutely provoking in your
utter want of knowledge of the world! When you are puzzled to account
for anything remarkable in a clergyman's conduct (I don't care, my
poor child, to what denomination he belongs) you can't be wrong in
attributing his motive to--Money. If Romayne had turned Baptist or
Methodist, the reverend gentleman in charge of his spiritual welfare
would not have forgotten--as you have forgotten, you little goose--that
his convert was a rich man. His mind would have dwelt on the chapel, or
the mission, or the infant school, in want of funds; and--with no more
abominable object in view than I have, at this moment, in poking the
fire--he would have ended in producing his modest subscription list
and would have betrayed himself (just as our odious Benwell will betray
himself) by the two amiable little words, Please contribute. Is there
any other presentiment, my dear, on which you would like to have your
mother's candid opinion?"

Stella resignedly took up the book again.

"I daresay you are right," she said. "Let us read our novel."

Before she had reached the end of the first page, her mind was far
away again from the unfortunate story. She was thinking of that "other
presentiment," which had formed the subject of her mother's last
satirical inquiry. The vague fear that had shaken her when she had
accidentally touched the French boy, on her visit to Camp's Hill, still
from time to time troubled her memory. Even the event of his death
had failed to dissipate the delusion, which associated him with some