"I have seen handsomer women," he went on; – "Madge is handsomer, in away; you may see many women more beautiful, according to the rules; butI never saw any one so lovely!"

"I quite agree with you," said Mrs. Barclay.

"I never saw anything so lovely!" he repeated. "She is most like – "

"A white lily," said Mrs. Barclay.

"No, that is not her type. No. As long as the world stands, a rose justopen will remain the fairest similitude for a perfect woman. It'scommonness cannot hinder that. She is not an unearthly Dendrobium, sheis an earthly rose —

'Not too good
For human nature's daily food,'

– if one could find the right sort of human nature! Just so fresh, unconscious, and fair; with just such a dignity of purity about her. Icannot fancy her at the opera, or dancing."

"A sort of unapproachable tea-rose?" said Mrs. Barclay, smiling at him, though her eyes were wistful.

"No," said he, "a tea-rose is too fragile. There is nothing of thatabout her, thank heaven!"

"No," said Mrs. Barclay, "there is nothing but sound healthy life abouther; mental and bodily; and I agree with you, sweet as ever a humanlife can be. In the garden or at her books, – hark! that is for supper."

For here there came a slight tap on the door.

"Supper!" cried Philip.

"Yes; it is rather late, and the girls promised me a cup of coffee, after your exertions! But I dare say everybody wants some refreshmentby this time. Come!"

There was a cheery supper table spread in the dining-room; coffee, indeed, and Stoney Creek oysters, and excellently cooked. Only Charityand Madge were there; Mrs. Armadale had gone to bed, and Lois wasattending upon her. Mr. DilIwyn, however, was served assiduously.

"I hope you're hungry! You've done a load of good this evening, Mr.

Dillwyn," said Charity, as she gave him his coffee.

"Thank you. I don't see the connection," said Philip, with an air asdifferent as possible from that he had worn in talking to Mrs. Barclayin the next room.

"People ought to be hungry when they have done a great deal of work,"

Madge explained, as she gave him a plate of oysters.

"I do not feel that I have done any work."

"O, well! I suppose it was play to you," said Charity, "but that don'tmake any difference. You've done a load of good. Why, the children willnever be able to forget it, nor the grown folks either, as far as thatgoes; they'll talk of it, and of you, for two years, and more."

"I am doubtful about the real worth of fame, Miss Charity, even when itlasts two years."

"O, but you've done so much good!" said the lady. "Everybody sees nowthat the white church can hold her own. Nobody'll think of makingdisagreeable comparisons, if they have fifty Christmas trees."

"Suppose I had helped the yellow church?"

Charity looked as if she did not know what he would be at. Just then incame Lois and took her place at the table; and Mr. Dillwyn forgot allabout rival churches.

"Here's Mr. Dillwyn don't think he's done any good, Lois!" cried herelder sister. "Do cheer him up a little. I think it's a shame to talkso. Why, we've done all we wanted to, and more. There won't a soul goaway from our church or school after this, now they see what we can do; and I shouldn't wonder if we got some accessions from the otherinstead. And here's Mr. Dillwyn says he don't know as he's done anygood!"

Lois lifted her eyes and met his, and they both smiled.

"Miss Lois sees the matter as I do," he said. "These are capitaloysters. Where do they come from?"

"But, Philip," said Mrs. Barclay, "you have given a great deal ofpleasure. Isn't that good?"

"Depends – " said he. "Probably it will be followed by a reaction."

"And you have kept the church together," added Charity, who was zealous.

"By a rope of sand, then, Miss Charity."

"At any rate, Mr. Dillwyn, you meant to do good," Lois put in here.

"I do not know, Miss Lois. I am afraid I was thinking more of pleasure, myself; and shall experience myself the reaction I spoke of. I think Ifeel the shadow of it already, as a coming event."

"But if we aren't to have any pleasure, because afterwards we feel alittle flat, – and of course we do," said Charity; "everybody knowsthat. But, for instance, if we're not to have green peas in summer, because we can't have 'em any way but dry in winter, – things would bevery queer! Queerer than they are; and they're queer enough already."

This speech called forth some merriment.

"You think even the dry remains of pleasure are better than nothing!"said Philip. "Perhaps you are right."

"And to have those, we must have had the green reality," said Loismerrily.

"I wonder if there is any way of keeping pleasure green," said Dillwyn.

"Vain, vain, Mr. Dillwyn!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe! don't you know? Solomon said, I believe, that all wasvanity. And he ought to know."

"But he didn't know," said Lois quickly.

"Lois!" said Charity – "it's in the Bible."

"I know it is in the Bible that he said so," Lois rejoined merrily.

"Was he not right, then?" Mr. Dillwyn asked.

"Perhaps," Lois answered, now gravely, "if you take simply his view."

"What was his view? Won't you explain?"

"I suppose you ain't going to set up to be wiser than Solomon, at thistime of day," said Charity severely. But that stirred Lois's merrimentagain.

"Explain, Miss Lois!" said Dillwyn.

"I am not Solomon, that I should preach," she said.

"You just said you knew better than he," said Charity. "How you shouldknow better than the Bible, I don't see. It's news."

"Why, Charity, Solomon was not a good man."

"How came he to write proverbs, then?"

"At least he was not always a good man."

"That don't hinder his knowing what was vanity, does it?"

"But, Lois!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Go back, and tell us your secret, ifyou have one. How was Solomon's view mistaken? or what is yours?"

"These things were all given for our pleasure, Mrs. Barclay."

"But they die – and they go – and they fade," said Mrs. Barclay.

"You will not understand me," said Lois; "and yet it is true. If youare Christ's – then, 'all things are yours;… the world, or life, ordeath, or things present, or things to come: all are yours.' There isno loss, but there comes more gain."

"I wish you'd let Mr. Dillwyn have some more oysters," said Charity;"and, Madge, do hand along Mrs. Barclay's cup. You mustn't talk, if youcan't eat at the same time. Lois ain't Solomon yet, if she does preach.You shut up, Lois, and mind your supper. My rule is, to enjoy things asI go along; and just now, it's oysters."

"I will say for Lois," here put in Mrs. Barclay, "that she doesexemplify her own principles. I never knew anybody with such a springof perpetual enjoyment."

"She ain't happier than the rest of us," said the elder sister.

"Not so happy as grandmother," added Madge. "At least, grandmotherwould say so. I don't know."

CHAPTER XXXVIII
BREAKING UP

Mr. Dillwyn went away. Things returned to their normal condition atShampuashuh, saving that for a while there was a great deal of talkabout the Santa Clans doings and the principal actor in them, and noend of speculations as to his inducements and purposes to be served intaking so much trouble. For Shampuashuh people were shrewd, and did notbelieve, any more than King Lear, that anything could come of nothing.That he was not moved by general benevolence, poured out upon theschool of the white church, was generally agreed. "What's we to him?"asked pertinently one of the old ladies; and vain efforts were made toascertain Mr. Dillwyn's denomination. "For all I kin make out, hehain't got none," was the declaration of another matron. "I don'tb'lieve he's no better than he should be." Which was ungrateful, andhardly justified Miss Charity's prognostications of enduring fame; bywhich, of course, she meant good fame. Few had seen Mr. Dillwynundisguised, so that they could give a report of him; but Mrs. Marxassured them he was "a real personable man; nice and plain, and takin'no airs. She liked him first-rate."

"Who's he after? Not one o' your gals?"

"Mercy, no! He, indeed! He's one of the high-flyers; he won't come toShampuashuh to look for a wife. 'Seems to me he's made o' money; andhe's been everywhere; he's fished for crocodiles in the Nile, and eatenhis luncheon at the top of the Pyramids of Egypt, and sailed to theNorth Pole to be sure of cool lemonade in summer. He won't marry inShampuashuh."

"What brings him here, then?"

"The spirit of restlessness, I should say. Those people that have beeneverywhere, you may notice, can't stay nowhere. I always knew there wasfools in the world, but I didn't know there was so many of 'em asthere be. He ain't no fool neither, some ways; and that makes him abigger fool in the end; only I don't know why the fools should have allthe money."

And so, after a little, the talk about this theme died out, and thingssettled down, not without some of the reaction Mr. Dillwyn hadpredicted; but they settled down, and all was as before in Shampuashuh.Mr. Dillwyn did not come again to make a visit, or Mrs. Marx's arousedvigilance would have found some ground for suspicion. There did comenumerous presents of game and fruit from him, but they were sent toMrs. Barclay, and could not be objected against, although they came insuch quantities that the whole household had to combine to dispose ofthem. What would Philip do next? – Mrs. Barclay queried. As he had said,he could not go on with repeated visits to the house. Madge and Loiswould not hear of being tempted to New York, paint the picture asbright as she would. Things were not ripe for any decided step on Mr.Dillwyn's part, and how should they become so? Mrs. Barclay could notsee the way. She did for Philip what she could by writing to him, whether for his good or his harm she could not decide. She feared thelatter. She told him, however, of the sweet, quiet life she wasleading; of the reading she was doing with the two girls, and the wholefamily; of the progress Lois and Madge were making in singing anddrawing and in various branches of study; of the walks in the freshsea-breezes, and the cosy evenings with wood fires and the lamp; andshe told him how they enjoyed his game, and what a comfort the orangeswere to Mrs. Armadale.

This lasted through January, and then there came a change. Mrs.Armadale was ill. There was no more question of visits, or of studies; and all sorts of enjoyments and occupations gave place to the oneabsorbing interest of watching and waiting upon the sick one. And then, that ceased too. Mrs. Armadale had caught cold, she had not strength tothrow off disease; it took violent form, and in a few days ran itscourse. Very suddenly the little family found itself without its head.

There was nothing to grieve for, but their own loss. The long, wearyearth-journey was done, and the traveller had taken up her abode wherethere is

"The rest begun,

That Christ hath for his people won."

She had gone triumphantly. "Through God we shall do valiantly" – beingher last – uttered words. Her children took them as a legacy, and feltrich. But they looked at her empty chair, and counted themselves poorerthan ever before. Mrs. Barclay saw that the mourning was deep. Yet, with the reserved strength of New England natures, it made no noise, and scarce any show.

Mrs. Barclay lived much alone those first days. She would gladly havetalked to somebody; she wanted to know about the affairs of the littlefamily, but saw no one to talk to. Until, two or three days after thefuneral, coming home one afternoon from a walk in the cold, she foundher fire had died out; and she went into the next room to warm herself.There she saw none of the usual inmates. Mrs. Armadale's chair stood onone side the fire, unoccupied, and on the other side stood uncle TimHotchkiss.

"How do you do, Mr. Hotchkiss? May I come and warm myself? I have beenout, and I am half-frozen."

"I guess you're welcome to most anything in this house, ma'am, – andfire we wouldn't grudge to anybody. Sit down, ma'am;" and he set achair for her. "It's pretty tight weather."

"We had nothing like this last winter," said Mrs. Barclay, shivering.

"We expect to hev one or two snaps in the course of the winter," saidMr. Hotchkiss. "Shampuashuh ain't what you call a cold place; but weexpect to see them two snaps. It comes seasonable this time. I'drayther hev it now than in March. My sister – that's gone, – she couldalways tell you how the weather was goin' to be. I've never seen no onelike her for that."

"Nor for some other things," said Mrs. Barclay. "It is a sad change tofeel her place empty."

"Ay," said uncle Tim, with a glance at the unused chair, – "it's thedifference between full and empty. 'I went out full, and the Lord hasbrought me back empty', Ruth's mother-in-law said."

"Who is Ruth?" Mrs. Barclay asked, a little bewildered, and willing tochange the subject; for she noticed a suppressed quiver in the hardfeatures. "Do I know her?"

"I mean Ruth the Moabitess. Of course you know her. She was a poorheathen thing, but she got all right at last. It was her mother-in-lawthat was bitter. Well – troubles hadn't ought to make us bitter. I guessthere's allays somethin' wrong when they do."

"Hard to help it, sometimes," said Mrs. Barclay.

"She wouldn't ha' let you say that," said the old man, indicatingsufficiently by his accent of whom he was speaking. "There warn't nobitterness in her; and she had seen trouble enough! She's out o' itnow."

"What will the girls do? Stay on and keep the house here just as theyhave done?"

"Well, I don' know," said Mr. Hotchkiss, evidently glad to welcome abusiness question, and now taking a chair himself. "Mrs. Marx and me,we've ben arguin' that question out, and it ain't decided. There's onebig house here, and there's another where Mrs. Marx lives; and there'sone little family, and here's another little family. It's expensive toscatter over so much ground. They had ought to come to Mrs. Marx, orshe had ought to move in here, and then the other house could berented. That's how the thing looks to me. It's expensive for fivepeople to take two big houses to live in. I know, the girls have gotyou now; but they might not keep you allays; and we must look at thingsas they be."

"I must leave them in the spring," said Mrs. Barclay hastily.

"In the spring, must ye!"

"Must," she repeated. "I would like to stay here the rest of my life; but circumstances are imperative. I must go in the spring."

"Then I think that settles it," said Mr. Hotchkiss. "I'm glad to knowit. That is! of course I'm sorry ye're goin'; the girls be very fond ofyou."

"And I of them," said Mrs. Barclay; "but I must go."

After that, she waited for the chance of a talk with Lois. She waitednot long. The household had hardly settled down into regular ways againafter the disturbance of sickness and death, when Lois came one eveningat twilight into Mrs. Barclay's room. She sat down, at first wassilent, and then burst into tears. Mrs. Barclay let her alone, knowingthat for her just now the tears were good. And the woman who had seenso much heavier life-storms, looked on almost with a feeling of envy atthe weeping which gave so simple and frank expression to grief. Untilthis feeling was overcome by another, and she begged Lois to weep nomore.

"I do not mean it – I did not mean it," said Lois, drying her eyes. "Itis ungrateful of me; for we have so much to be thankful for. I am soglad for grandmother!" – Yet somehow the tears went on falling.

"Glad?" – repeated Mrs. Barclay doubtfully. "You mean, because she isout of her suffering."

"She did not suffer much. It is not that. I am so glad to think she hasgot home!"

"I suppose," said Mrs. Barclay in a constrained voice, "to such aperson as your grandmother, death has no fear. Yet life seems to memore desirable."

"She has entered into life!" said Lois. "She is where she wanted to be, and with what she loved best. And I am very, very glad! even though Ido cry."

"How can you speak with such certain'ty, Lois? I know, in such a caseas that of your grandmother, there could be no fear; and yet I do notsee how you can speak as if you knew where she is, and with whom."

"Only because the Bible tells us," said Lois, smiling even through weteyes. "Not the place; it does not tell us the place; but with Christ.That they are; and that is all we want to know.

'Beyond the sighing and the weeping.'

– It makes me gladder than ever I can tell you, to think of it."

"Then what are those tears for, my dear?"

"It's the turning over a leaf," said Lois sadly, "and that is alwayssorrowful. And I have lost – uncle Tim says," she broke off suddenly,"he says, – can it be? – he says you say you must go from us in thespring?"

"That is turning over another leaf," said Mrs. Barclay.

"But is it true?"

"Absolutely true. Circumstances make it imperative. It is not my wish.

I would like to stay here with you all my life."

"I wish you could. I half hoped you would," said Lois wistfully.

"But I cannot, my dear. I cannot."

"Then that is another thing over," said Lois. "What a good time it hasbeen, this year and a half you have been with us! how much worth toMadge and me! But won't you come back again?"

"I fear not. You will not miss me so much; you will all keep housetogether, Mr. Hotchkiss tells me."

"I shall not be here," said Lois.

"Where will you be?" Mrs. Barclay started.

"I don't know; but it will be best for me to do something to helpalong. I think I shall take a school somewhere. I think I can get one."

"A school, my dear? Why should you do such a thing?"

"To help along," said Lois. "You know, we have not much to live on hereat home. I should make one less here, and I should be earning a littlebesides."

"Very little, Lois!"

"Very little will do."

"But you do a great deal now towards the family support. What willbecome of your garden?"

"Uncle Tim can take care of that. Besides, Mrs. Barclay, even if Icould stay at home, I think I ought not. I ought to be doingsomething – be of some use in the world. I am not needed here, now deargrandmother is gone; and there must be some other place where I amneeded."

"My dear, somebody will want you to keep house for him, some of thesedays."

Lois shook her head. "I do not think of it," she said. "I do not thinkit is very likely; that is, anybody I should want. But if it weretrue," she added, looking up and smiling, "that has nothing to do withpresent duty."

"My dear, I cannot bear to think of your going into such drudgery!"

"Drudgery?" said Lois. "I do not know, – perhaps I should not find itso. But I may as well do it as somebody else."

"You are fit for something better."

"There is nothing better, and there is nothing happier," said Lois, rising, "than to do what God gives us to do. I should not be unhappy,Mrs. Barclay. It wouldn't be just like these days we have passedtogether, I suppose; – these days have been a garden of flowers."

And what have they all amounted to? thought Mrs. Barclay when she wasleft alone. Have I done any good – or only harm – by acceding to that madproposition of Philip's? Some good, surely; these two girls have grownand changed, mentally, at a great rate of progress; they are educated, cultivated, informed, refined, to a degree that I would never havethought a year and a half could do. Even so! have I done them good?They are lifted quite out of the level of their surroundings; and to belifted so, means sometimes a barren living alone. Yet I will not thinkthat; it is better to rise in the scale of being, if ever one can, whatever comes of it; what one is in oneself is of more importance thanone's relations to the world around. But Philip? – I have helped himnourish this fancy – and it is not a fancy now – it is the man's wholelife. Heigh ho! I begin to think he was right, and that it is verydifficult to know what is doing good and what isn't. I must write toPhilip —

So she did, at once. She told him of the contemplated changes in thefamily arrangements; of Lois's plan for teaching a district school; anddeclared that she herself must now leave Shampuashuh. She had done whatshe came for, whether for good or for ill. It was done; and she couldno longer continue living there on Mr. Dillwyn's bounty. Now it wouldbe mere bounty, if she stayed where she was; until now she might sayshe had been doing his work. His work was done now, her part of it; therest he must finish for himself. Mrs. Barclay would leave Shampuashuhin April.

This letter would bring matters to a point, she thought, if anythingcould; she much expected to see Mr. Dillwyn himself appear again beforeMarch was over. He did not come, however; he wrote a short answer toMrs. Barclay, saying that he was sorry for her resolve, and wouldcombat it if he could; but felt that he had not the power. She mustsatisfy her fastidious notions of independence, and he could only thankher to the last day of his life for what she had already done for him; service which thanks could never repay. He sent this letter, but saidnothing of coming; and he did not come.

Later, Mrs. Barclay wrote again. The household changes were just aboutto be made; she herself had but a week or two more in Shampuashuh; andLois, against all expectation, had found opportunity immediately to tryher vocation for teaching. The lady placed over a school in a remotelittle village had suddenly died; and the trustees of the school hadconsidered favourably Lois's application. She was going in a day or twoto undertake the charge of a score or two of boys and girls, of allages, in a wild and rough part of the country; where even theaccommodations for her own personal comfort, Mrs. Barclay feared, wouldbe of the plainest.

To this letter also she received an answer, though after a littleinterval. Mr. Dillwyn wrote, he regretted Lois's determination; regretted that she thought it necessary; but appreciated thestraightforward, unflinching sense of duty which never consulted withease or selfishness. He himself was going, he added, on business, for atime, to the north; that is, not Massachusetts, but Canada. He wouldtherefore not see Mrs. Barclay until after a considerable interval.

Mrs. Barclay did not know what to make of this letter. Had Philip givenup his fancy? It was not like him. Men are fickle, it is true; butfickle in his friendships she had never known Mr. Dillwyn to be. Yetthis letter said nothing of love, or hope, or fear; it was cool, friendly, business-like. Mrs. Barclay nevertheless did not know how tobelieve in the business. He have business! What business? She hadalways known him as an easy, graceful, pleasure-taker; finding hispleasure in no evil ways, indeed; kept from that by early associations,or by his own refined tastes and sense of honour; but never living toanything but pleasure. His property was ample and unencumbered; eventhe care of that was not difficult, and did not require much of histime. And now, just when he ought to put in his claim for Lois, if hewas ever going to make it; just when she was set loose from her oldties and marking out a new and hard way of life for herself, he oughtto come; and he was going on business to Canada! Mrs. Barclay wasexcessively disgusted and disappointed. She had not, indeed, all alongseen how Philip's wooing could issue successfully, if it ever came tothe point of wooing; the elements were too discordant, and principlestoo obstinate; and yet she had worked on in hope, vague and doubtful, but still hope, thinking highly herself of Mr. Dillwyn's pretensionsand powers of persuasion, and knowing that in human nature at large allprinciple and all discordance are apt to come to a signal defeat whenLove takes the field. But now there seemed to be no question of wooing;Love was not on hand, where his power was wanted; the friends were allscattered one from another – Lois going to the drudgery of teachingrough boys and girls, she herself to the seclusion of some quietseaside retreat, and Mr. Dillwyn – to hunt bears? – in Canada.