There was a little more bustle in the house than usual during the nexttwo days; and the spare room was no doubt put in very particular order, with the best of all the house could furnish on the bed andtoilet-table. Pantry and larder also were well stocked; and Lois wasjust watching the preparation of her chickens, Saturday evening, andtherefore in the kitchen, when Mr. Dillwyn came to the door. Mrs.Barclay herself let him in, and brought him into her own warm, comfortable, luxurious-looking sitting-room. The evening was fallingdusk, so that the little wood lire in Mrs. Barclay's chimney hadopportunity to display itself, and I might say, the room too; whichnever could have showed to better advantage. The flickering lightdanced back again from gilded books, from the polished case of thepiano, from picture frames, and pictures, and piles of music, andcomfortable easy-chairs standing invitingly, and trinkets of art orcuriosity; an unrolled engraving in one place, a stereoscope inanother, a work-basket, and the bright brass stand of a microscope.

The greeting was warm between the two friends; and then Mrs. Barclaysat down and surveyed her visitor, whom she had not seen for so long.He was not a beauty of Tom Caruthers' sort, but he was what I thinkbetter; manly and intelligent, and with an air and bearing of franknobleness which became him exceedingly. That he was a man with aserious purpose in life, or any object of earnest pursuit, you wouldnot have supposed; and that character had never belonged to him. Mrs.Barclay, looking at him, could not see any sign that it was his now.Look and manner were easy and careless as of old.

"You are not changed," she remarked.

"What should change me?" said he, while his eye ran rapidly over theapartment. "And you? – you do not look as if life was stagnating here."

"It does not stagnate. I never was further from stagnation in all mylife."

"And yet Shampuashuh is in a corner!"

"Is not most of the work of the world done in corners? It is not thebutterfly, but the coral insect, that lays foundations and lifts upislands out of the sea."

"You are not a coral insect any more than I am a butterfly," said

Dillwyn, laughing.

"Rather more."

"I acknowledge it, thankfully. And I am rejoiced to know from yourletters that the seclusion has been without any evil consequences toyourself. It has been pleasant?"

"Royally pleasant. I have delighted in my building; even although Icould not tell whether my island would not prove a dangerous one tomariners."

"I have just been having a discourse on that subject with my sister. Ithink one's sisters are – I beg your pardon! – the mischief. Tom's sisterhas done for him; and mine is very eager to take care of me."

"Did you consult her?" asked Mrs. Barclay, with surprise.

"Nothing of the kind! I merely told her I was coming up here to seeyou. A few questions followed, as to what you were doing here, – which Idid not tell her, by the way, – and she hit the bull's eye with theinstinctive accuracy of a woman; poured out upon me in consequence alecture upon imprudence. Of course I confessed to nothing, but thatmattered not. All that Tom's sister urged upon him, my good sisterpressed upon me."

"So did I once, did I not?"

"You are not going to repeat it?"

"No; that is over, for me. I know better. But, Philip, I do not see theway very clear before you."

He left the matter there, and went off into a talk with her uponwidely-different subjects, touching or growing out of his travels andexperiences during the last year and a half. The twilight darkened, andthe fire brightened, and in the light of the fire the two sat andtalked; till a door opened, and in the same flickering shine a figurepresented itself which Mr. Dillwyn remembered. Though now it wasclothed in nothing finer than a dark calico, and round her shoulders alittle white worsted shawl was twisted. Mrs. Barclay began a sentenceof introduction, but Mr. Dillwyn cut her short.

"Do not do me such dishonour," he said. "Must I suppose that Miss

Lothrop has forgotten me?"

"Not at all, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois frankly; "I remember you verywell. Tea will be ready in a minute – would you like to see your roomfirst?"

"You are too kind, to receive me!"

"It is a pleasure. You are Mrs. Barclay's friend, and she is at homehere; I will get a light."

Which she did, and Mr. Dillwyn, seeing he could not find his own way, was obliged to accept her services and see her trip up the stairsbefore him. At the door she handed him the light and ran down again.There was a fire here too – a wood fire; blazing hospitably, andthrowing its cheery light upon a wide, pleasant, country room, not likewhat Mr. Dillwyn was accustomed to, but it seemed the more hospitable.Nothing handsome there; no articles of luxury (beside the fire); thereflection of the blaze came back from dark old-fashioned chairs andchests of drawers, dark chintz hangings to windows and bed, whitecounterpane and napery, with a sonsy, sober, quiet air of comfort; andthe air was fresh and sweet as air should be, and as air can only be ata distance from the smoke of many chimneys and the congregatedhabitations of many human beings. I do not think Mr. Dillwyn spent muchattention upon these details; yet he felt himself in a sound, clear, healthy atmosphere, socially as well as physically; also had aperception that it was very far removed from that in which he had livedand breathed hitherto. How simply that girl had lighted him up thestairs, and given him his brass candlestick at the door of his room!What à plomb could have been more perfect! I do not mean to implythat Mr. Dillwyn knew the candlestick was brass; I am afraid there wasa glamour over his eyes which made it seem golden.

He found Mrs. Barclay seated in a very thoughtful attitude before herfire, when he came down again; but just then the door of the other roomwas opened, and they were called in to tea.

The family were in rather gala trim. Lois, as I said, wore indeed onlya dark print dress, with her white fichu over it; but Charity had puton her best silk, and Madge had stuck two golden chrysanthemums in herdark hair (with excellent effect), and Mrs. Armadale was stately in herbest cap. Alas! Philip Dillwyn did not know what any of them had on. Hewas placed next to Mrs. Armadale, and all supper time his specialattention, so far as appeared, was given to the old lady. He talked toher, and he served her, with an easy, pleasant grace, and without atall putting himself forward or taking the part of the distinguishedstranger. It was simply good will and good breeding; however, itproduced a great effect.

"The air up here is delicious!" he remarked, after he had attended toall the old lady's immediate wants, and applied himself to his ownsupper. "It gives one a tremendous appetite."

"I allays like to see folks eat," said Mrs. Armadale. "After one's donethe gettin' things ready, I hate to have it all for nothin'."

"It shall not be for nothing this time, as far as I am concerned."

"Ain't the air good in New York?" Mrs. Armadale next asked.

"I do not think it ever was so sweet as this. But when you crowd amillion or so of people into room that is only enough for a thousand, you can guess what the consequences must be."

"What do they crowd up so for, then?"

"It must be the case in a great city."

"I don't see the sense o' that," said Mrs. Armadale. "Ain't the worldbig enough?"

"Far too big," said Mr. Dillwyn. "You see, when people's time is veryvaluable, they cannot afford to spend too much of it in running aboutafter each other."

"What makes their time worth any more'n our'n?"

"They are making money so fast with it."

"And is that what makes folks' time valeyable?"

"In their opinion, madam."

"I never could see no use in havin' much money," said the old lady.

"But there comes a question," said Dillwyn. "What is 'much'?"

"More'n enough, I should say."

"Enough for what? That also must be settled."

"I'm an old-fashioned woman," said the old lady, "and I go by theold-fashionedst book in the world. That says, 'we brought nothing intothis world, and we can carry nothing out; therefore, having food andraiment, let us be therewith content.'"

"But, again, what sort of food, and what sort of raiment?" urged thegentleman pleasantly. "For instance; would you be content to exchangethis delicious manufacture, – which seems to me rather like ambrosiathan common food, – for some of the black bread of Norway? with noqualification of golden butter? or for Scotch oatmeal bannocks? or forsour corn cake?"

"I would be quite content, if it was the Lord's will," said the oldlady. "There's no obligation upon anybody to have it sour."

Mr. Dillwyn laughed gently. "I can fancy," he said, "that you neverwould allow such a dereliction in duty. But, beside having the breadsweet, is it not allowed us to have the best we can get?"

"The best we can make," answered Mrs. Armadale; "I believe ineverybody doin' the best he kin with what he has got to work with; butfood ain't worth so much that we should pay a large price for it."

The gentleman's eye glanced with a scarcely perceptible movement overthe table at which he was sitting. Bread, indeed, in piles of whiteflakiness; and butter; but besides, there was the cold ham in delicateslices, and excellent-looking cheese, and apples in a sort of beautifulgolden confection, and cake of superb colour and texture; a pitcher ofmilk that was rosy sweet, and coffee rich with cream. The glance thattook all this in was slight and swift, and yet the old lady was quickenough to see and understand it.

"Yes," she said, "it's all our'n, all there is on the table. Our coweats our own grass, and Madge, my daughter, makes the butter and thecheese. We've raised and cured our own pork; and the wheat that makesthe bread is grown on our ground too; we farm it out on shares; and itis ground at a mill about four miles off. Our hens lay our eggs; it'sall from home."

"But suppose the case of people who have no ground, nor hens, nor pork, nor cow? they must buy."

"Of course," said the old lady; "everybody ain't farmers."

"I am ready to wish I was one," said Dillwyn. "But even then, Iconfess, I should want coffee and tea and sugar – as I see you. do."

"Well, those things don't grow in America," said Mrs. Armadale.

"And spice don't, neither, mother," observed Charity.

"So it appears that even you send abroad for luxuries," Mr. Dillwynwent on. "And why not? And the question is, where shall we stop? If Iwant coffee, I must have money to buy it, and the better the coffee themore money; and the same with tea. In cities we must buy all we use orconsume, unless one is a butcher or a baker. May I not try to get moremoney, in order that I may have better things? We have got round to ourstarting-point."

"'They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,'" Mrs.

Armadale said quietly.

"Then where is the line? – Miss Lois, you are smiling. Is it at mystupidity?"

"No," said Lois. "I was thinking of a lunch – such as I have seen it – inone of the great New York hotels."

"Well?" said he, without betraying on his own part any recollection;"how does that come in? By way of illustrating Mrs. Armadale, or me?"

"I seem to remember a number of things that illustrate both," saidLois; "but as I profited by them at the time, it would be ungrateful inme to instance them now."

"You profited by them with pleasure, or otherwise?"

"Not otherwise. I was very hungry."

"You evade my question, however."

"I will not. I profited by them with much pleasure."

"Then you are on my side, as far as I can be said to have a side?"

"I think not. The pleasure is undoubted; but I do not know that thattouches the question of expediency."

"I think it does. I think it settles the question. Mrs. Armadale, yourgranddaughter confesses the pleasure; and what else do we live for, butto get the most good out of life?"

"What pleasure does she confess?" asked the old lady, with moreeagerness than her words hitherto had manifested.

"Pleasure in nice things, grandmother; in particularly nice things; that had cost a great deal to fetch them from nobody knows where; andpleasure in pretty things too. That hotel seemed almost like the hallsof Aladdin to my inexperienced eyes. There is certainly pleasure in awonderfully dainty meal, served in wonderful vessels of glass and chinaand silver, and marble and gold and flowers to help the effect. I couldhave dreamed myself into a fairy tale, often, if it had not been forthe people."

"Life is not a fairy tale," said Mrs. Armadale somewhat severely.

"No, grandmother; and so the humanity present generally reminded me.

But the illusion for a minute was delightful."

"Is there any harm in making it as much like a fairy tale as we can?"

Some of the little courtesies and hospitalities of the table came inhere, and Mr. Dillwyn's question received no answer. His eye went roundthe table. No, clearly these people did not live in fairyland, and aslittle in the search after it. Good, strong, sensible, practical faces; women that evidently had their work to do, and did it; habitual energyand purpose spoke in every one of them, and purpose attained. Herewas no aimless dreaming or fruitless wishing. The old lady's face wassorely weather-beaten, but calm as a ship in harbour. Charity washomely, but comfortable. Madge and Lois were blooming in strength andactivity, and as innocent apparently of any vague, unfulfilled longingsas a new-blown rose. Only when Mr. Dillwyn's eye met Mrs. Barclay's hewas sensible of a different record. He half sighed. The calm and therest were not there.

The talk rambled on. Mr. Dillwyn made him self exceedingly pleasant; told of things he had seen in his travels, things and people, and waysof life; interesting even Mrs. Armadale with a sort of fascinatedinterest, and gaining, he knew, no little share of her good-will. So, just as the meal was ending, he ventured to bring forward the oldsubject again.

"You will pardon me, Mrs. Armadale," he began, – "but you are the firstperson I ever met who did not value money."

"Perhaps I am the first person you ever met who had something better."

"You mean – ?" said Philip, with a look of inquiry. "I do notunderstand."

"I have treasure in heaven."

"But the coin of that realm is not current here? – and we are here."

"That coin makes me rich now; and I take it with me when I go," saidthe old lady, as she rose from the table.

CHAPTER XXXIV
UNDER AN UMBRELLA

Mrs. Barclay returned to her own room, and Mr. Dillwyn was forced tofollow her. The door was shut between them and the rest of thehousehold. Mrs. Barclay trimmed her fire, and her guest looked onabsently. Then they sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace; Mrs.Barclay smiling inwardly, for she knew that Philip was impatient; however, nothing could be more sedate to all appearance than she was.

"Do you hear how the wind moans in the chimney?" she said. "That meansrain."

"Rather dismal, isn't it?"

"No. In this house nothing is dismal. There is a wholesome way oflooking at everything."

"Not at money?"

"It is no use, Philip, to talk to people about what they cannotunderstand."

"I thought understanding on that point was universal."

"They have another standard in this family for weighing things, fromthat which you and I have been accustomed to go by."

"What is it?"

"I can hardly tell you, in a word. I am not sure that I can tell you atall. Ask Lois."

"When can I ask her? Do you spend your evenings alone?"

"By no means! Sometimes I go out and read 'Rob Roy' to them. Sometimesthe girls come to me for some deeper reading, or lessons."

"Will they come to-night?"

"Of course not! They would not interfere with your enjoyment of mysociety."

"Cannot you ask Lois in, on some pretext?"

"Not without her sister. It is hard on you, Philip! I will do the bestfor you I can; but you must watch your opportunity."

Mr. Dillwyn gave it up with a good grace, and devoted himself to Mrs.Barclay for the rest of the evening. On the other side of the wallseparating the two rooms, meanwhile a different colloquy had takenplace.

"So that is one of your fine people?" said Miss Charity. "Well, I don'tthink much of him."

"I have no doubt he would return the compliment," said Madge.

"No," said Lois; "I think he is too polite."

"He was polite to grandmother," returned Charity. "Not to anybody else, that I saw. But, girls, didn't he like the bread!"

"I thought he liked everything pretty well," said Madge.

"When's he goin'?" Mrs. Armadale asked suddenly.

"Monday, some time," Madge answered. "Mrs. Barclay said 'until Monday.'

What time Monday I don't know."

"Well, we've got things enough to hold out till then," said Charity, gathering up her dishes. "It's fun, too; I like to set a nice table."

"Why, grandmother?" said Lois. "Don't you like Mrs. Barclay's friend?"

"Well enough, child. I don't want him for none of our'n."

"Why, grandmother?" said Madge.

"His world ain't our world, children, and his hopes ain't our hopes – ifthe poor soul has any. 'Seems to me he's all in the dark."

"That's only on one subject," said Lois. "About everything else heknows a great deal; and he has seen everything."

"Yes," said Mrs. Armadale; "very like he has; and he likes to talkabout it; and he has a pleasant tongue; and he is a civil man. Butthere's one thing he hain't seen, and that is the light; and one thinghe don't know, and that is happiness. And he may have plenty ofmoney – I dare say he has; but he's what I call a poor man. I don't wantyou to have no such friends."

"But grandmother, you do not dislike to have him in the house these twodays, do you?"

"It can't be helped, my dear, and we'll do the best for him we can. But

I don't want you to have no such friends."

"I believe we should go out of the world to suit grandmother," remarked

Charity. "She won't think us safe as long as we're in it."

The whole family went to church the next morning. Mr. Dillwyn'sparticular object, however, was not much furthered. He saw Lois, indeed, at the breakfast table; and the sight was everything his fancyhad painted it. He thought of Milton's

"Pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure" —

only the description did not quite fit; for there was a healthy, sweetfreshness about Lois which gave the idea of more life and activity, mental and bodily, than could consort with a pensive character. Therest fitted pretty well; and the lines ran again and again through Mr.Dillwyn's head. Lois was gone to church long before the rest of thefamily set out; and in church she did not sit with the others; and shedid not come home with them. However, she was at dinner. Butimmediately after dinner Mrs. Barclay with drew again into her ownroom, and Mr. Dillwyn had no choice but to accompany her.

"What now?" he asked. "What do you do the rest of the day?"

"I stay at home and read. Lois goes to Sunday school."

Mr. Dillwyn looked to the windows. The rain Mrs. Barclay threatened hadcome; and had already begun in a sort of fury, in company with a wind, which drove it and beat it, as it seemed, from all points of thecompass at once. The lines of rain-drops went slantwise past thewindows, and then beat violently upon them; the ground was wet in a fewminutes; the sky was dark with its thick watery veils. Wind and rainwere holding revelry.

"She will not go out in this weather," said the gentleman, withconviction which seemed to be agreeable.

"The weather will not hinder her," returned Mrs. Barclay.

"This weather?"

"No. Lois does not mind weather. I have learned to know her by thistime. Where she thinks she ought to go, or what she thinks she ought todo, there no hindrance will stop her. It is good you should learn toknow her too, Philip."

"Pray tell me, – is the question of 'ought' never affected by whatshould be legitimate hindrances?"

"They are never credited with being legitimate," Mrs. Barclay said, with a slight laugh. "The principle is the same as that old soldier'swho said, you know, when ordered upon some difficult duty, 'Sir, if itis possible, it shall be done; and if it is impossible, it must bedone!'"

"That will do for a soldier,", said Dillwyn. "At what o'clock does shego?"

"In about a quarter of an hour I shall expect to hear her feetpattering softly through the hall, and then the door will open and shutwithout noise, and a dark figure will shoot past the windows."

Mr. Dillwyn left the room, and probably made some preparations; forwhen, a few minutes later, a figure all wrapped up in a waterproofcloak did pass softly through the hall, he came out of Mrs. Barclay'sroom and confronted it; and I think his overcoat was on.

"Miss Lois! you cannot be going out in this storm?"

"O yes. The storm is nothing – only something to fight against."

"But it blows quite furiously."

"I don't dislike a wind," said Lois, laying her hand on the lock of thedoor.

"You have no umbrella?"

"Don't need it. I am all protected, don't you see? Mr. Dillwyn, you are not going out?"

"Why not?"

"But you have nothing to call you out?"

"I beg your pardon. The same thing, I venture to presume, that callsyou out, – duty. Only in my case the duty is pleasure."

"You are not going to take care of me?"

"Certainly."

"But there's no need. Not the least in the world."

"From your point of view."

He was so alertly ready, had the door open and his umbrella spread, andstood outside waiting for her, Lois did not know how to get rid of him.She would surely have done it if she could. So she found herself goingup the street with him by her side, and the umbrella warding off thewind and rain from her face. It was vexatious and amusing. From herface! who had faced Sharnpuashuh storms ever since she could remember.It is very odd to be taken care of on a sudden, when you areaccustomed, and perfectly able, to take care of your self. It is alsoagreeable.

"You had better take my arm, Miss Lois," said her companion. "I couldshield you better."

"Well," said Lois, half laughing, "since you are here, I may as welltake the good of it."

And then Mr. Dillwyn had got things as he wanted them.

"I ventured to assume, a little while ago, Miss Lois, that duty wastaking you out into this storm; but I confess my curiosity to know whatduty could have the right to do it. If my curiosity is indiscreet, youcan rebuke it."

"It is not indiscreet," said Lois. "I have a sort of a Bible class, inthe upper part of the village, a quarter of a mile beyond the church."

"I understood it was something of that kind, or I should not haveasked. But in such weather as this, surely they would not expect you?"

"Yes, they would. At any rate, I am bound to show that I expect them."

"Do you expect them, to come out to-day?"

"Not all of them," Lois allowed. "But if there would not be one, still

I must be there."

"Why? – if you will pardon me for asking."

"It is good they should know that I am regular and to be depended on.And, besides, they will be sure to measure the depth of my interest inthe work by my desire to do it. And one can do so little in this worldat one's best, that one is bound to do all one can."

"All one can," Mr. Dillwyn repeated.

"You cannot put it at a lower figure. I was struck with a word in oneof Mrs. Barclay's books – 'the Life and Correspondence of JohnFoster,' – 'Power, to its very last particle, is duty.'"

"But that would be to make life a terrible responsibility."

"Say noble – not terrible!" said Lois.

"I confess it seems to me terrible also. I do not see how you can getrid of the element of terribleness."

"Yes, – if duty is neglected. Not if duty is done."

"Who does his duty, at that rate?"

"Some people try," said Lois.

"And that trying must make life a servitude."

"Service – not servitude!" exclaimed Lois again, with the samewholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticedbefore.

"How do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inwardsmile; and yet Mr. Dillwyn was earnest enough too.

"There is more than a line between them," said Lois. "There is all thedistance between freedom and slavery." And the words recurred to her,"I will walk at liberty, for I seek thy precepts;" but she judgedthey would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation fromhim, so she did not speak them. "Service," she went on, "I think isone of the noblest words in the world; but it cannot be renderedservilely. It must be free, from the heart."

"You make nice distinctions. Service, I suppose you mean, of one'sfellow creatures?"

"No," said Lois, "I do not mean that. Service must be given to God. Itwill work out upon one's fellow-creatures, of course."

"Nice distinctions again," said Mr. Dillwyn.

"But very real! And very essential."

"Is there not service – true service – that is given wholly to one'sneedy fellows of humanity? It seems to me I have heard of such."

"There is a good deal of such service," said Lois, "but it is not thetrue. It is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; andis found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. Trueservice, given to God, and rising from the love of him, goes where itis sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever tofail. Real service gives all, and is ready for everything."

"How much do you mean, I wonder, by 'giving all'? Do you use the wordssoberly?"

"Quite soberly," said Lois, laughing.

"Giving all what?"

"All one's power, – according to Foster's judgment of it."

"Do you know what that would end in?"

"I think I do. How do you mean?"

"Do you know how much a man or a woman would give who gave all hehad?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"What would be left for himself?"

Lois did not answer at once; but then she stopped short in her walk andstood still, in the midst of rain and wind, confronting her companion.And her words were with an energy that she did not at all mean to givethem.

"There would be left for him – all that the riches and love of God coulddo for his child."

Mr. Dillwyn gazed into the face that was turned towards him, flushed, fired, earnest, full of a grand consciousness, as of a most simpleunconsciousness, – and for the moment did not think of replying. ThenLois recollected herself, smiled at herself, and went on.

"I am very foolish to talk so much," she said. "I do not know why I do.Somehow I think it is your fault, Mr. Dillwyn. I am not in the habit, Ithink, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better thanmyself."

"I am sure you are aware that I was speaking honestly, and that I donot know better?" he said.

"I suppose I thought so," Lois answered. "But that does not quiteexcuse me. Only – I was sorry for you, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Thank you. Now, may I go on? The conversation can hardly be sointeresting to you as it is to me."

"I think I have said enough," said Lois, a little shyly.

"No, not enough, for I want to know more. The sentence you quoted fromFoster, if it is true, is overwhelming. If it is true, it leaves allthe world with terrible arrears of obligation."

"Yes," Lois answered half reluctantly, – "duty unfulfilled is terrible. But, not 'all the world,' Mr. Dillwyn."

"You are an exception."

"I did not mean myself. I do not suppose I do all I ought to do. I dotry to do all I know. But there are a great many beside me, who dobetter."

"You agree then, that one is not bound by duties unknown?"

Lois hesitated. "You are making me talk again, as if I were wise," shesaid. "What should hinder any one from knowing his duty, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Suppose a case of pure ignorance."

"Then let ignorance study."

"Study what?"

"Mr. Dillwyn, you ought to ask somebody who can answer you better."

"I do not know any such somebody."

"Haven't you a Christian among all your friends?"

"I have not a friend in the world, of whom I could ask such a questionwith the least hope of having it answered."

"Where is your minister?"

"My minister? Clergyman, you mean? Miss Lois, I have been a wandererover the earth for years. I have not any 'minister.'"

Lois was silent again. They had been walking fast, as well as talkingfast, spite of wind and rain; the church was left behind some time ago, and the more comely and elegant part of the village settlement.

"We shall have to stop talking now," Lois said, "for we are near myplace."

"Which is your place?"

"Do you see that old schoolhouse, a little further on? We have that forour meetings. Some of the boys put it in order and make the fire forme."

"You will let me come in?"

"You?" said Lois. "O no! Nobody is there but my class."

"You will let me be one of them to-day? Seriously, – I am going to waitto see you home; you will not let me wait in the rain?"

"I shall bid you go home," said Lois, laughing.

"I am not going to do that."

"Seriously, Mr. Dillwyn, I do not need the least care."

"Perhaps. But I must look at the matter from my point of view."

What a troublesome man! thought Lois; but then they were at theschoolhouse door, the wind and rain came with such a wild burst, thatit seemed the one thing to do to get under shelter; and so Mr. Dillwynwent in with her, and how to turn him out Lois did not know.

It was a bare little place. The sanded floor gave little help orseeming of comfort; the wooden chairs and benches were old and hard; however, the small stove did give out warmth enough to make the placehabitable, even to its furthest corners. Six people were already there.Lois gave a rapid glance at the situation. There was no time, and itwas no company for a prolonged battle with the intruder.

"Mr. Dillwyn," she said softly, "will you take a seat by the stove, asfar from us as you can; and make believe you have neither eyes norears? You must not be seen to have either – by any use you make of them.If you keep quite still, maybe they will forget you are here. You cankeep up the fire for us."

She turned from him to greet her young friends, and Mr. Dillwyn obeyedorders. He hung up his wet hat and coat and sat down in the furthestcorner; placing himself so, however, that neither eyes nor ears shouldbe hindered in the exercise of their vocation, while his attitude mighthave suggested a fit of sleepiness, or a most indifferent meditation onthings far distant, or possibly rest after severe exertion. Lois andher six scholars took their places at the other end of the room, whichwas too small to prevent every word they spoke from being distinctlyheard by the one idle spectator. A spectator in truth Mr. Dillwyndesired to be, not merely an auditor; so, as he had been warned he mustnot be seen to look, he arranged himself in a manner to serve bothpurposes, of seeing and not seeing.