But the answer to this most serious inquiry was met by such a burst oflaughter on the part of both the older persons in the room, that Philhad to wait; nothing daunted, however, returned to the charge.

"Uncle Phil, if you had a wife, what would her name be?"

"If ever I have one, Chauncey, her name will be – "

But here the speaker had very nearly, in his abstraction, brought out aname that would, to say the least, have astonished his sister. Hecaught himself up just in time, and laughed.

"If ever I have one, her name will be mine."

"I did not know, last night, but you had chosen the lady to whom youintended to do so much honour," his sister observed coolly, looking athim across her chocolate cup.

"Or who I hoped would do me so much honour. What did you think of mysupposed choice?" he asked with equal coolness.

"What could I think, except that you were like all othermen – distraught for a pretty face."

"One might do worse," observed Philip, in the same tone, while that ofhis sister grew warmer.

"Some men, – but not you, Philip?"

"What distinguishes me from the mass?"

"You are too old to be made a fool of."

"Old enough to be wise, certainly."

"And you are too fastidious to be satisfied with anything short ofperfection; and then you fill too high a position in the world to marrya girl who is nobody."

"So?" – said Philip, using, which it always vexed his sister to have himdo, the half questioning, half admiring, wholly unattackable Germanexpression. "Then the person alluded to seemed to you something shortof perfection?"

"She is handsome," returned his sister; "she has a very handsome face; anybody can see that; but that does not make her your equal."

"Humph! – You suppose I can find that rare bird, my equal, do you?"

"Not there."

"What's the matter with her?"

"She is simply nobody."

"Seems to say a good deal," responded Philip. "I do not know justwhat it says."

"You know as well as I do! And she is unformed; unused to all the waysof the world; a mere novice in society."

"Part of that is soon mended," said Philip easily. "I heard your uncle,or Burrage's uncle, old Colonel Chauncey, last night declaring thatthere is not a girl in the city that has such manners as one of theMiss Lothrops; manners of 'mingled grace and dignity,' he said."

"That was the other one."

"She has been in New York before?"

"Yes."

"That was the one that Tom Caruthers was bewitched with?"

"Have you heard that story?" said Mr. Dillwyn dryly.

"Why shouldn't I hear it?"

"No reason, that I know. It is one of the 'ways of the world' youreferred to, to tell everything of everybody, – especially when it isnot true."

"Isn't that story true?"

"It has no inherent improbability. Tom is open to influences, and – " Hestopped.

"I know it is true; for Mrs. Caruthers told me herself."

"Poor Tom!" —

"It was very good for him, that the thing was put an end to. Butyou– you should fly at higher game than Tom Caruthers can strike,Philip."

"Thank you. There was no occasion for your special fear last night. Iam in no danger there. But I know a man, Jessie, – a man I think muchof, too, – who is very much drawn to one of those ladies. He hasconfessed as much to me. What advice shall I give him? He is a man thatcan please himself; he has abundant means, and no ties to encumber him."

"Does he hold as high a position as you?"

"Quite."

"And may pretend to as much?"

"He is not a man of pretensions. But, taking your words as they mean, Ishould say, yes."

"Is it any use to offer him advice?"

"I think he generally hears mine – if he is not too far gone insomething."

"Ah! – Well, Philip, tell him to think what he is doing."

"O, I have put that before him."

"He would make himself a great goose."

"Perhaps I ought to have some arguments wherewith to substantiate thatprophecy."

"He can see the whole for himself. Let him think of the fitness ofthings. Imagine such a girl set to preside over his house – a house likethis, for instance. Imagine her helping him receive his guests; sittingat the head of his table. Fancy it; a girl who has been accustomed tosanded floors, perhaps, and paper window-shades, and who has fed onpumpkins and pork all her life."

Mr. Dillwyn smiled, as his eye roved over what of his sister's house was visible from where he sat, and he remembered the meal-times in

Shampuashuh; he smiled, but his eye had more thought in it than Mrs.

Burrage liked. She was watching him.

"I cannot tell what sort of a house is in question in the presentcase," he said at length. "Perhaps it would not be a house like this."

"It ought to be a house like this."

"Isn't that an open question?"

"No! I am supposing that this man, your friend – Do I know him?"

"Do you not know everybody? But I have no permission to disclose hisname."

"And I do not care for it, if he is going to make a mésalliance; amarriage beneath him. Such marriages turn out miserably. A woman notfit for society drags her husband out of it; a woman who has notrefined tastes makes him gradually coarse; a woman with no connectionskeeps him from rising in life; if she is without education, she letsall the best part of him go to waste. In short, if he marries a nobodyhe becomes nobody too; parts with all his antecedents, and buries allhis advantages. It's social ruin, Philip! it is just ruin."

"If this man only does not prefer the bliss of ruining himself!" – saidher brother, rising and lightly stretching himself. Mrs. Burrage lookedat him keenly and doubtfully.

"There is no greater mistake a man can make, than to marry beneathhim," she went on.

"Yes, I think that too."

"It sinks him below his level; it is a weight round his neck; peopleafterwards, when he is mentioned say, – 'He married such a one, youknow;' and, 'Didn't he marry unfortunately?' – He is like depreciatedcoin. It kills him, Philip, politically."

"And fashionably."

"O, fashionably! of course."

"What's left to a man when he ceases to be fashionable?"

"Well, of course he chooses a new set of associates."

"But if Tom Caruthers had married as you say he wanted to marry, hiswife would have come at once into his circle, and made one of it?"

"Provided she could hold the place."

"Of that I have no doubt."

"It was a great gain to Tom that he missed."

"The world has odd balances to weigh loss and gain!" said Philip.

"Why, Philip, in addition to everything else, these girls arereligious;– not after a reasonable fashion, you know, butpuritanical; prejudiced, and narrow, and stiff."

"How do you know all that?"

"From that one's talk last night. And from Mrs. Wishart."

"Did she say they were puritanical?"

"Yes. O yes! they are stiff about dancing and cards; and I had nearlylaughed last night at the way Miss – what's her name? – opened her eyesat me when I spoke of the theatre."

"She does not know what the theatre is," said Philip.

"She thinks she does."

"She does not know the half."

"Philip," said Mrs. Burrage severely and discontentedly, "you are notagreeing with me."

"Not entirely, sister."

"You are as fond of the theatre, or of the opera, as anybody I know."

"I never saw a decent opera in my life."

"Philip!"

"Nor did you."

"How ridiculous! You have been going to the opera all your life, andthe theatre too, in half a dozen different countries."

"Therefore I claim to know of what I speak. And if I had a wife – " hepaused. His thoughts made two or three leaps; the vision of Lois'ssweet, pure dignity came before him, and words were wanting.

"What if you had a wife?" asked his sister impatiently.

"I would rather she would be anything but a 'fast' woman."

"She needn't be 'fast'; but she needn't be precise either."

There was something in Philip's air or his silence which provoked Mrs.

Burrage. She went on with some heat, and defiantly.

"I have no objection to religion, in a proper way. I always teach

Chauncey to make the responses."

"Make them yourself?"

"Of course."

"Do you mean them?"

"Mean them!" —

"Yes. Do you mean what you say? When you have said, 'Lord, have mercyupon us, miserable sinners' – did you feel guilty? or miserable?"

"Miserable!" —

"Yes. Did you feel miserable?"

"Philip, I have no idea what you are driving at, unless you aredefending these two precise, puritanical young country-women."

"A little of that," he said, smiling, "and a little of something else."

He had risen, as if to go. His sister looked at him, vexed anduncertain. She was proud of her brother, she admired him, as almostpeople did who knew Mr. Dillwyn. Suddenly she changed her tactics; roseup, and coming to him laid both her hands on his shoulders so that shecould raise herself up to kiss him.

"Don't you go and be foolish!" she said. "I will forgive your friend,

Philip, but I will not forgive you!"

CHAPTER XLV
DUTY

The days of December went by. Lois was herself again, in health; andnothing was in the way of Madge's full enjoyment of New York and itspleasures, so she enjoyed them to the full. She went wherever Mrs.Wishart would take her. That did not involve any very outrageousdissipation, for Mrs. Wishart, though fond of society, liked it best inmoderation. Moderate companies and moderate hours suited her. However,Madge had enough to content her new thirst for excitement and variety, especially as Mr. Dillwyn continually came in to fill up gaps in herengagements. He took her to drive, or to see various sights, which forthe country-bred girl were full of enchantment; and he came to thehouse constantly on the empty evenings.

Lois queried again and again what brought him there? Madge it must be;it could hardly be the society of his old friend Mrs. Wishart. It wasnot her society that he sought. He was general in his attentions, to besure; but he played chess with Madge, he accompanied Madge's singing,he helped Madge in her French reading and Italian pronunciation, andtook Madge out. He did none of these things with Lois. Truly Lois hadbeen asked, and would not go out either alone or with her sister in Mr.Dillwyn's carriage or in Mr. Dillwyn's convoy. And she had beenchallenged, and invariably declined, to sing with them; and she did notwant to learn the game of chess, and took no help from anybody in herstudies. Indeed, Lois kept herself persistently in the background, andrefused to accompany her friends to any sort of parties; and at home, though she must sit down-stairs in the evening, she withdrew from theconversation as much as she could.

"My dear," said Mrs. Wishart, much vexed at last, "you do not think itis wicked to go into society, I hope?"

"Not for you. I do not think it would be right for me."

"Why not, pray? Is this Puritanism?"

"Not at all," said Lois, smiling.

"She is a regular Puritan, though," said Madge.

"It isn't that," Lois repeated. "I like going out among people as wellas Madge does. I am afraid I might like it too well."

"What do you mean by 'too well'?" demanded her protectress, a littleangrily.

"More than would be good for me. Just think – in a little while I mustgo back to Esterbrooke and teaching; don't you see, I had better notget myself entangled with what would unfit me for my work?"

"Nonsense! That is not your work."

"You are never going back to that horrid place!" exclaimed Madge.

But they both knew, from the manner of Lois's quiet silence, that theirpositions would not be maintained.

"There's the more reason, if you are going back there by and by, whyyou should take all the advantage you can of the present," Mrs. Wishartadded. Lois gave her a sweet, grateful look, acknowledging hertenderness, but not granting her conclusions. She got away from thesubject as soon as she could. The question of the sisters' return homehad already been broached by Lois; received, however, by Mrs. Wishartwith such contempt, and by Madge with such utter disfavour, that Loisfound the point could not be carried; at least not at that time; andthen winter began to set in, and she could find no valid reason formaking the move before it should be gone again, Mrs. Wishart'sintention being unmistakeable to keep them until spring. But how wasshe going to hold out until spring? Lois felt herself veryuncomfortable. She could not possibly avoid seeing Mr. Dillwynconstantly; she could not always help talking to him, for sometimes hewould make her talk; and she was very much afraid that she liked totalk to him. All the while she was obliged to see how much attention hewas paying to Madge, and it was no secret how well Madge liked it; andLois was afraid to look at her own reasons for disliking it. Was itmerely because Mr. Dillwyn was a man of the world, and she did not wanther sister to get entangled with him? her sister, who had made nopromise to her grandmother, and who was only bound, and perhaps wouldnot be bound, by Bible commands? Lois had never opened her Bible tostudy the point, since that evening when Mr. Dillwyn had interruptedher. She was ashamed to do it. The question ought to have no interestfor her.

So days went by, and weeks, and the year was near at an end, when thefirst snow came. It had held off wonderfully, people said; and now whenit came it came in earnest. It snowed all night and all day; and slowlythen the clouds thinned and parted and cleared away, and the westeringsun broke out upon a brilliant world.

Lois sat at her window, looking out at it, and chiding herself that itmade her feel sober. Or else, by contrast, it let her know how sobershe was. The spectacle was wholly joy-inspiring, and so she had beenwont to find it. Snow lying unbroken on all the ground, in one white, fair glitter; snow lying piled up on the branches and twigs of trees, doubling them with white coral; snow in ridges and banks on theopposite shore of the river; and between, the rolling waters. Madgeburst in.

"Isn't it glorious?" said Lois. "Come here and see how black the riveris rolling between its white banks."

"Black? I didn't know anything was black," said Madge. "Here is Mr.Dillwyn, come to take me sleigh-riding. Just think, Lois! – a sleighride in the Park! – O, I'm so glad I have got my hood done!"

Lois slowly turned her head round. "Sleigh-riding?" she said. "Are yougoing sleigh-riding, and with Mr. Dillwyn?"

"Yes indeed, why not?" said Madge, bustling about with great activity."I'd rather go with him than with anybody else, I can tell you. He hasgot his sister's horses – Mrs. Burrage don't like sleighing – and Mr.Burrage begged he would take the horses out. They're gay, but he knowshow to drive. O, won't it be magnificent?"

Lois looked at her sister in silence, unwilling, yet not knowing whatto object; while Madge wrapped herself in a warm cloak, and donned asilk hood lined with cherry colour, in which she was certainlysomething to look at. No plainer attire nor brighter beauty would beseen among the gay snow-revellers that afternoon. She flung a sparklingglance at her sister as she turned to go.

"Don't be very long!" Lois said.

"Just as long as he likes to make it!" Madge returned. "Do you thinkI am going to ask him to turn about, before he is ready? Not I, Ipromise you. Good-bye, hermit!"

Away she ran, and Lois turned again to her window, where all the whiteseemed suddenly to have become black. She will marry him! – she wassaying to herself. And why should she not? she has made no promise. I am bound – doubly; what is it to me, what they do? Yet if not right forme it is not right for Madge. Is the Bible absolute about it?

She thought it would perhaps serve to settle and stay her mind if shewent to the Bible with the question and studied it fairly out. She drewup the table with the book, and prayed earnestly to be taught thetruth, and to be kept contented with the right. Then she opened at thewell-known words in 2 Corinthians, chap. vi.

"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers" —

"Yoked together." That is, bound in a bond which obliges two to go oneway and pull in one draught. Then of course they must go one way; andwhich way, will depend upon which is strongest. But cannot a good womanuse her influence to induce a man who is also good, only not Christian,to go the right way?

Lois pondered this, wishing to believe it. Yet there stood the command.And she remembered there are two sides to influence; could not a goodman, and a pleasant man, only not Christian, use his power to induce aChristian woman to go the wrong way? How little she would like todisplease him! how willingly she would gratify him! – And then therestands the command. And, turning from it to a parallel passage in 1Cor. vii. 39, she read again the directions for the marriage of aChristian widow; she is at liberty to be married to whom she will,"only in the Lord." There could be no question of what is the will ofGod in this matter. And in Deut. vii. 3, 4, she studied anew thereasons there given. "Neither shalt thou make marriages with them; thydaughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thoutake unto thy son. For they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods."

Lois studied these passages with I cannot say how much aching of heart.Why did her heart ache? It was nothing to her, surely; she neitherloved nor was going to love any man to whom the prohibition couldapply. Why should she concern herself with the matter? Madge? – Well,Madge must be the keeper of her own conscience; she would probablymarry Mr. Dillwyn; and poor Lois saw sufficiently into the workings ofher own heart to know that she thought her sister very happy in theprospect. But then, if the question of conscience could be so got over,why was she troubled? She would not evade the inquiry; she forcedherself to make it; and she writhed under the pressure and the pain itcaused her. At last, thoroughly humbled and grieved and ashamed, shefled to a woman's refuge in tears, and a Christian's refuge in prayer; and from the bottom of her heart, though with some very hard struggles, gave up every lingering thought and wish that ran counter to the Biblecommand. Let Madge do what Madge thought right; she had warned her ofthe truth. Now her business was with herself and her own action; andLois made clean work of it. I cannot say she was exactly a happy womanas she went down-stairs; but she felt strong and at peace. Doing theLord's will, she could not be miserable; with the Lord's presence shecould not be utterly alone; anyhow, she would trust him and do herduty, and leave all the rest.

She went down-stairs at last, for she had spent the afternoon in herown room, and felt that she owed it to Mrs. Wishart to go down and keepher company. O, if Spring were but come! she thought as she descendedthe staircase, – and she could get away, and take hold of her work, andbring things into the old train! Spring was many weeks off yet, and shemust do different and harder work first, she saw. She went down to theback drawing-room and laid herself upon the sofa.

"Are you not well, Lois?" was the immediate question from Mrs. Wishart.

"Yes, ma'am; only not just vigorous. How long they are gone! It isgrowing late."

"The sleighing is tempting. It is not often we have such a chance. Isuppose everybody is out. You don't go into the air enough, Lois."

"I took a walk this morning."

"In the snow! – and came back tired. I saw it in your face. Suchdreadful walking was enough to tire you. I don't think you half knowhow to take care of yourself."

Lois let the charge pass undisputed, and lay still. The afternoon hadwaned and the sun gone down; the snow, however, made it still lightoutside. But that light faded too; and it was really evening, whensounds at the front door announced the return of the sleighing party.Presently Madge burst in, rosy and gay as snow and sleigh-bells couldmake anybody.

"It's glorious!" she said. "O, we have been to the Park and all over.It's splendid! Everybody in the world is out, and we saw everybody, andsome people we saw two or three times; and it's like nothing in all theworld I ever saw before. The whole air is full of sleigh-bells; and theroads are so thick with sleighs that it is positively dangerous."

"That must make it very pleasant!" said Lois languidly.

"O, it does! There's the excitement, you know, and the skill ofsteering clear of people that you think are going to run over you. It'sthe greatest fun I ever saw in my life. And Mr. Dillwyn drivesbeautifully."

"I dare say."

"And the next piece of driving he does, is to drive you out."

"I hardly think he will manage that."

"Well, you'll see. Here he is. She says she hardly thinks you will, Mr.

Dillwyn. Now for a trial of power!"

Madge stood in the centre of the room, her hood off, her little plaincloak still round her; eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy with pleasure andfrosty air, a very handsome and striking figure. Lois's eyes dwelt uponher, glad and sorry at once; but Lois had herself in hand now, and wasas calm as the other was excited. Then presently came Mr. DilIwyn, andsat down beside her couch.

"How do you do, this evening?"

His manner, she noticed, was not at all like Madge's; it was quiet, sober, collected, gentle; sleighing seemed to have wrought noparticular exhilaration on him. Therefore it disarmed Lois. She gaveher answer in a similar tone.

"Have you been out to-day?"

"Yes – quite a long walk this morning."

"Now I want you to let me give you a short drive."

"O no, I think not."

"Come!" said he. "I may not have another opportunity to show you whatyou will see to-day; and I want you to see it."

He did not seem to use much urgency, and yet there was a certaininsistance in his tone which Lois felt, and which had its effect uponher, as such tones are apt to do, even when one does not willinglysubmit to them. She objected that it was late.

"O, the moon is up," cried Madge; "it won't be any darker than it isnow."

"It will be brighter," said Philip.

"But your horses must have had enough."

"Just enough," said Philip, laughing, "to make them go quietly. Miss

Madge will bear witness they were beyond that at first. I want you to go with me. Come, Miss Lois! We must be home before Mrs. Wishart's tea.

Miss Madge, give her your hood and cloak; that will save time."

Why should she not say no? She found it difficult, against thatsomething in his tone. He was more intent upon the affirmative than sheupon the negative. And after all, why should she say no? She hadfought her fight and conquered; Mr. Dillwyn was nothing to her, morethan another man; unless, indeed, he were to be Madge's husband, andthen she would have to be on good terms with, him. And she had a secretfancy to have, for once, the pleasure of this drive with him. Why not, just to see how it tasted? I think it went with Lois at this moment asin the German story, where a little boy vaunted himself to his sisterthat he had resisted the temptation to buy some ripe cherries, and sohad saved his pennies. His sister praised his prudence and firmness."But now, dear Hercules," she went on, "now that you have done rightand saved your pennies, now, my dear brother, you may reward yourselfand buy your cherries!"

Perhaps it was with some such unconscious recoil from judgment thatLois acted now. At any rate, she slowly rose from her sofa, and Madge, rejoicing, threw off her cloak and put it round her, and fastened itsties. Then Mr. Dillwyn himself took the hood and put it on her head, and tied the strings under her chin. The start this gave her almostmade Lois repent of her decision; he was looking into her face, and hisfingers were touching her cheek, and the pain of it was more than Loishad bargained for. No, she thought, she had better not gone; but it wastoo late now to alter things. She stood still, feeling that thrill ofpain and pleasure where the one so makes the other keen, keeping quietand not meeting his eyes; and then he put her hand upon his arm and ledher down the wide, old-fashioned staircase. Something in the air of itall brought to Lois's remembrance that Sunday afternoon at Shampuashuhand the walk home in the rain; and it gave her a stricture of heart.She put the manner now to Madge's account, and thought within herselfthat if Madge's hood and cloak were beside him it probably did notmatter who was in them; his fancy could do the rest. Somehow she didnot want to go to drive as Madge's proxy. However, there was no helpingthat now. She was put into the sleigh, enveloped in the fur robes; Mr.Dillwyn took his place beside her, and they were off.