"What's your quarrel with my parables, Harry?" said the curate.
"Quarrel? None at all. They are the delight of my heart. I only wish
you would give our friends one of your best--_The Castle_, for
instance."
"Not yet a while, Harry. It is not my turn for some time, I hope.
Perhaps Miss Cathcart will be tired of the whole affair, before it
comes round to me again."
"Then I shall deserve to be starved of stories all the rest of my life,"
answered Adela, laughing.
"If you will allow me, then," said Harry, "I will give you a parable,
called _The Lost Church_, from the German poet, Uhland."
"Softly, Harry," said his brother; "you are ready enough with what is
not yours to give; but where is your own story that you promised, and
which indeed we should have a right to demand, whether you had promised
it or not?"
"I am working at it, Ralph, in my spare moments, which are not very
many; and I want to choose the right sort of night to tell it in, too.
This one wouldn't do at all. There's no moon."
"If it is a horrid story, it is a pity you did not read it last time,
before you set out to cross the moor."
"Oh, that night would not have done at all. A night like that drives all
fear out of one's head. But indeed it is not finished yet.--May I repeat
the parable now, Miss Cathcart?"
"What do you mean by a _parable_, Mr. Henry?" interrupted Mrs.
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