“How old are you?” “Sixteen. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. ‘Cousin? But I am a fool. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. Two packets were committed to your charge, which you undertook to deliver,—one to another priest, Sir Rowland's chaplain, at Manchester, the other to Mr. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket.
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