Tom hesitated. "It's too late. I've lost my time. She has given meup, and mother and Julia have set their hearts that I should give herup. I am not a match for them. Is a man ever a match for a woman, doyou think, Dillwyn, if she takes something seriously in hand?"

"Will you go to Europe next spring?"

"Perhaps. I suppose so."

"If you do, perhaps I will join the party – that is, if you will all letme."

So the conversation went over into another channel.

CHAPTER XVIII
MR. DILLWYN'S PLAN

Two or three evenings after this, Philip Dillwyn was taking his waydown the Avenue, not up it. He followed it down to nearly its lowertermination, and turned up into Clinton Place, where he presently runup the steps of a respectable but rather dingy house, rang the bell, and asked for Mrs. Barclay.

The room where he awaited her was one of those dismal places, a publicparlour in a boarding-house of second or third rank. Respectable, butforlorn. Nothing was ragged or untidy, but nothing either had the leastlook of home comfort or home privacy. As to home elegance, or luxury, the look of such a room is enough to put it out of one's head thatthere can be such things in the world. The ugly ingrain carpet, theungraceful frame of the small glass in the pier, the abominableportraits on the walls, the disagreeable paper with which they werehung, the hideous lamps on the mantelpiece; – wherever the eye looked,it came back with uneasy discomfort. Philip's eye came back to thefire; and that was not pleasant to see; for the fireplace was notproperly cared for, the coals were lifeless, and evidently moreeconomical than useful. Philip looked very out of place in thesesurroundings. No one could for a moment have supposed him to be livingamong them. His thoroughly well-dressed figure, the look of easyrefinement in his face, the air of one who is his own master, soinimitable by one whose circumstances master him; all said plainly thatMr. Dillwyn was here only on account of some one else. It could be nohome of his.

As little did it seem fitted to be the home of the lady who presentlyentered. A tall, elegant, dignified woman; in the simplest of dresses, indeed, which probably bespoke scantiness of means, but which could notat all disguise or injure the impression of high breeding andrefinement of manners which her appearance immediately produced. Shewas a little older than her visitor, yet not much; a woman in the primeof life she would have been, had not life gone hard with her; and shehad been very handsome, though the regular features were shadowed withsadness, and the eyes had wept too many tears not to have suffered lossof their original brightness. She had the slow, quiet manner of onewhose life is played out; whom the joys and sorrows of the world haveboth swept over, like great waves, and receding, have left the world abarren strand for her; where the tide is never to rise again. She was asad-eyed woman, who had accepted her sadness, and could be quietlycheerful on the surface of it. Always, at least, as far as goodbreeding demanded. She welcomed Mr. Dilhvyn with a smile and evidentgenuine pleasure.

"How do I find you?" he said, sitting down.

"Quite well. Where have you been all summer? I need not ask how you are."

"Useless things always thrive," he said. "I have been wandering aboutamong the mountains and lakes in the northern part of Maine."

"That is very wild, isn't it?"

"Therein lies its charm."

"There are not roads and hotels?"

"The roads the lumberers make. And I saw one hotel, and did not want tosee any more."

"How did you find your way?"

"I had a guide – an Indian, who could speak a little English."

"No other company?"

"Rifle and fishing-rod."

"Good work for them there, I suppose?"

"Capital. Moose, and wild-fowl, and fish, all of best quality. I wished

I could have sent you some."

"Thank you for thinking of me. I should have liked the game too."

"Are you comfortable here?" he asked, lowering his voice. Just then thedoor opened; a man's head was put in, surveyed the two people in theroom, and after a second's deliberation disappeared again.

"You have not this room to yourself?" inquired Dilhvyn.

"O no. It is public property."

"Then we may be interrupted?"

"At any minute. Do you want to talk to me, 'unter vier Augen'?"

"I want no more, certainly. Yes, I came to talk to you; and I cannot,if people keep coming in." A woman's head had now shown itself for amoment. "I suppose in half an hour there will be a couple of oldgentlemen here playing backgammon. I see a board. Have you not a cornerto yourself?"

"I have a corner," she said, hesitating; "but it is only big enough tohold me. However, if you will promise to make no remarks, and to 'makebelieve,' as the children say, that the place is six times as large asit is, I will, for once take you to it. I would take no one else."

"The honour will not outweigh the pleasure," said Dillwyn as he rose.

"But why must I put such a force upon my imagination?"

"I do not want you to pity me. Do you mind going up two flights ofstairs?"

"I would not mind going to the top of St. Peter's!"

"The prospect will be hardly like that."

She led the way up two flights of stairs. At the top of them, in thethird story, she opened the door of a little end room, cut off thehall. Dillwyn waited outside till she had found her box of matches andlit a lamp; then she let him come in and shut the door. It was a littlebit of a place indeed, about six feet by twelve. A table, covered withbooks and papers, hanging shelves with more books, a work-basket, atrunk converted into a divan by a cushion and chintz cover, and arocking-chair, about filled the space. Dillwyn took the divan, and Mrs.Barclay the chair. Dillwyn looked around him.

"I should never dream of pitying the person who can be contented here,"he said.

"Why?"

"The mental composition must be so admirable! I suppose you haveanother corner, where to sleep?"

"Yes," she said, smiling; "the other little room like this at the otherend of the hall. I preferred this arrangement to having one larger roomwhere I must sit and sleep both. Old habits are hard to get rid of. Nowtell me more about the forests of Maine. I have always had a curiosityabout that portion of the country."

He did gratify her for a while; told of his travels, and camping out; and of his hunting and fishing; and of the lovely scenery of the lakesand hills. He had been to the summit of Mount Kataydin, and he hadexplored the waters in 'birches;' and he told of odd specimens ofhumanity he had found on his way; but after a while of this talk Philipcame suddenly back to his starting point.

"Mrs. Barclay, you are not comfortable here?"

"As well as I can expect," she said, in her quiet, sad manner. Thesadness was not obtrusive, not on the surface; it was only thebackground to everything.

"But it is not comfort. I am not insulting you with pity, mind; but Iam thinking. Would you not like better to be in the country? in somepleasant place?"

"You do not call this a pleasant place?" she said, with her faintsmile. "Now I do. When I get up here, and shut the door, I am my ownmistress."

"Would you not like the country?"

"It is out of my reach, Philip. I must do something, you know, to keepeven this refuge."

"I think you said you would not be averse to doing something in theline of giving instruction?"

"If I had the right pupils. But there is no chance of that. There aretoo many competitors. The city is overstocked."

"We were talking of the country."

"Yes, but it is still less possible in the country. I could not findthere the sort of teaching I could do. All requisitions of that sort, people expect to have met in the city; and they come to the city forit,"

"I do not speak with certain'ty," said Philip, "but I think I know aplace that would suit you. Good air, pleasant country, comfortablequarters, and moderate charges. And if you went there, there is work."

"Where is it?"

"On the Connecticut shore – far down the Sound. Not too far from New

York, though; perfectly accessible."

"Who lives there?"

"It is a New England village, and you know what those are. Broad grassystreets, and shadowy old elms, and comfortable houses; and the sea notfar off. Quiet, and good air, and people with their intelligence alive.There is even a library."

"And among these comfortable inhabitants, who would want to be troubledwith me?"

"I think I know. I think I know just the house, where your coming wouldbe a boon. They are not very well-to-do. I have not asked, but I aminclined to believe they would be glad to have you."

"Who are they?"

"A household of women. The father and mother are dead; the grandmotheris there yet, and there are three daughters. They are relations of anold friend of mine, indeed a connection of mine, in the city. So I knowsomething about them."

"Not the people themselves?"

"Yes, I know the people, – so far as one specimen goes. I fancy they arepeople you could get along with."

Mrs. Barclay looked a little scrutinizingly at the young man. His facerevealed nothing, more than a friendly solicitude. But he caught thelook, and broke out suddenly with a change of subject.

"How do you women get along without cigars? What is your substitute?"

"What does the cigar, to you, represent?"

"Soothing and comforting of the nerves – aids to thought – powerful helpsto good humour – something to do – "

"There! now you have it. Philip you are talking nonsense. Your nervesare as steady and sound as a granite mountain; you can think withouthelp of any extraneous kind; your good-humour is quite as fair as mostpeople's; but – you do want something to do! I cannot bear to have youwaste your life in smoke, be it never so fragrant."

"What would you have me do?"

"Anything! so you were hard at work, and doing work."

"There is nothing for me to do."

"That cannot be," said she, shaking her head.

"Propose something."

"You have no need to work for yourself," she said; "so it must be forother people. Say politics."

"If ever there was anything carried on purely for selfish interests, itis the business you name."

"The more need for some men to go into it not for self, but for thecountry."

"It's a Maelstrom; one would be sure to get drawn in. And it is a dirtybusiness. You know the proverb about touching pitch."

"It need not be so, Philip."

"It brings one into disgusting contact and associations. My cigar isbetter."

"It does nobody any good except the tobacconist. And, Philip, it helpsthis habit of careless letting everything go, which you have got into."

"I take care of myself, and of my money," he said.

"Men ought to live for more than to take care of themselves."

"I was just trying to take care of somebody else, and you head me off!You should encourage a fellow better. One must make a beginning. And Iwould like to be of use to somebody, if I could."

"Go on," she said, with her faint smile again. "How do you propose that

I shall meet the increased expenditures of your Connecticut paradise?"

"You would like it?" he said eagerly.

"I cannot tell. But if the people are as pleasant as the place – itwould be a paradise. Still, I cannot afford to live in paradise, I amafraid."

"You have only heard half my plan. It will cost you nothing. You haveheard only what you are to get – not what you are to give."

"Let me hear. What am I to give?"

"The benefits of your knowledge of the world, and knowledge ofliterature, and knowledge of languages, to two persons who need and arewith out them all."

"'Two persons.' What sort of persons?"

"Two of the daughters I spoke of."

Mrs. Barclay was silent a minute, looking at him.

"Whose plan is this?"

"Your humble servant's. As I said, one must make a beginning; and thisis my beginning of an attempt to do good in the world."

"How old are these two persons?"

"One of them, about eighteen, I judge. The other, a year or two older."

"And they wish for such instruction?"

"I believe they would welcome it. But they know nothing about theplan – and must not know," he added very distinctly, meeting Mrs.Barclay's eyes with praiseworthy steadiness.

"What makes you think they would be willing to pay for my services, then? Or, indeed, how could they do it?"

"They are not to do it. They are to know nothing whatever about it.They are not able to pay for any such advantages. Here comes in thebenevolence of my plan. You are to do it for me, and I am to pay theworth of the work; which I will do to the full. It will much more thanmeet the cost of your stay in the house. You can lay up money," hesaid, smiling.

"Phil," said Mrs. Barclay, "what is behind this very odd scheme?"

"I do not know that anything – beyond the good done to two young girls, and the good done to you."

"It is not that," she said. "This plan never originated in your regardfor my welfare solely."

"No. I had an eye to theirs also."

"Only to theirs and mine, Phil?" she asked, bending a keen look uponhim. He laughed, and changed his position, but did not answer.

"Philip, Philip, what is this?"

"You may call it a whim, a fancy, a notion. I do not know that anythingwill ever come of it. I could wish there might – but that is a verycloudy and misty château en Espagne, and I do not much look at it. Thepresent thing is practical. Will you take the place, and do what youcan for these girls?"

"What ever put this thing in your head?"

"What matter, if it is a good thing?"

"I must know more about it. Who are these people?"

"Connections of Mrs. Wishart. Perfectly respectable."

"What are they, then?"

"Country people. They belong, I suppose, to the farming population of a

New England village. That is very good material."

"Certainly – for some things. How do they live – by keeping boarders?"

"Nothing of the kind! They live, I suppose, – I don't know how theylive; and I do not care. They live as farmers, I suppose. But they arepoor."

"And so, without education?"

"Which I am asking you to supply."

"Phil, you are interested in one of these girls?"

"Didn't I tell you I was interested in both of them?" he said, laughing. And he rose now, and stood half leaning against the door ofthe little room, looking down at Mrs. Barclay; and she reviewed him. Helooked exactly like what he was; a refined and cultivated man of theworld, with a lively intelligence in full play, and every instinct andhabit of a gentleman. Mrs. Barclay looked at him with a very grave face.

"Philip, this is a very crazy scheme!" she said, after a minute or twoof mutual consideration.

"I cannot prove it anything else," he said lightly. "Time must do that."

"I do not think Time will do anything of the kind. What Time doesordinarily, is to draw the veil off the follies our passions andfancies have covered up."

"True; and there is another work Time some times does. He sometimesdraws forth a treasure from under the encumbering rubbish that hid it, and lets it appear for the gold it is."

"Philip, you have never lost your heart to one of these girls?" said

Mrs. Barclay, with an expression of real and grave anxiety.

"Not exactly."

"But your words mean that."

"They are not intended to convey any such meaning. Why should they?"

"Because if they do not mean that, your plan is utterly wild andextravagant. And if they do – "

"What then?"

"Then it would be far more wild and extravagant. And deplorable."

"See there the inconsistency of you good people!" said Mr. Dillwyn, still speaking lightly. "A little while ago you were urging me to makemyself useful. I propose a way, in which I want your co-operation, calculated to be highly beneficial in a variety of ways, – and I hitupon hindrances directly."

"Philip, it isn't that. I cannot bear to think of your marrying a womanunworthy of you."

"I still less!" he assured her, with mock gravity.

"And that is what you are thinking of. A woman without education, without breeding, without knowledge of the world, without anything,that could make her a fit companion for you. Philip, give this up!"

"Not my plan," said he cheerfully. "The rest is all in yourimagination. What you have to do, if you will grant my prayer, is tomake this little country girl the exact opposite of all that. You willdo it, won't you?"

"Where will you be?"

"Not near, to trouble you. Probably in Europe. I think of going withthe Caruthers in the spring."

"What makes you think this girl wants – I mean, desires – education?"

"If she does not, then the fat's in the fire, that's all."

"I did not know you were so romantic, before."

"Romantic! Could anything be more practical? And I think it will be sogood for you, in that sea air."

"I would rather never smell the sea air, if this is going to be foryour damage. Does the girl know you are an admirer of hers?"

"She hardly knows I am in the world! O yes, she has seen me, and I havetalked with her; by which means I come to know that labour spent on herwill not be spent in vain. But of me she knows nothing."

"After talking with you!" said Mrs. Barclay. "What else is she?

Handsome?"

"Perhaps I had better let you judge of that. I could never marry a merepretty face, I think. But there is a wonderful charm about thiscreature, which I do not yet understand. I have never been able to findout what is the secret of it."

"A pretty face and a pink cheek!" said Mrs. Barclay, with half a groan."You are all alike, you men! Now we women – Philip, is the thing mutualalready? Does she think of you as you think of her?"

"She does not think of me at all," said he, sitting down again, andfacing Mrs. Barclay with an earnest face. "She hardly knows me. Herattention has been taken up, I fancy, with another suitor."

"Another suitor! You are not going to be Quixote enough to educate awife for another man?"

"No," said he, half laughing. "The other man is out of the way, andmakes no more pretension."

"Rejected? And how do you know all this so accurately?"

"Because he told me. Now have you done with objections?"

"Philip, this is a very blind business! You may send me to this place, and I may do my best, and you may spend your money, – and at the end ofall, she may marry somebody else; or, which is quite on the cards, youmay get another fancy."

"Well," said he, "suppose it. No harm will be done. As I never had anyfancy whatever before, perhaps your second alternative is hardlylikely. The other I must risk, and you must watch against."

Mrs. Barclay shook her head, but the end was, she yielded.

CHAPTER XIX
NEWS

November had come. It was early in the month still; yet, as oftenhappens, the season was thoroughly defined already. Later, perhaps, some sweet relics or reminders of October would come in, or days of thesoberer charm which October's successor often brings; but just now, agrey sky and a brown earth and a wind with no tenderness in it banishedall thought of such pleasant times. The day was dark and gloomy. So thefire which burned bright in the kitchen of Mrs. Armadale's house showedparticularly bright, and its warm reflections were exceedingly welcomeboth to the eye and to the mind. It was a wood fire, in an openchimney, for Mrs. Armadale would sit by no other; and I call the placethe kitchen, for really a large portion of the work of the kitchen wasdone there; however, there was a stove in an adjoining room, whichaccommodated most of the boilers and kettles in use, while the roomitself was used for all the "mussy" work. Nevertheless, it was onlyupon occasion that fire was kindled in that outer room, economy in fuelforbidding that two fires should be all the while kept going.

In the sitting-room kitchen, then, this November afternoon, the wholefamily were assembled. The place was as nice as a pin, and as neat asif no work were ever done there. All the work of the day, indeed, wasover; and even Miss Charity had come to sit down with the rest, knitting in hand. They had all changed their dresses and put off theirbig aprons, and looked unexceptionably nice and proper; only, it isneedless to say, with no attempt at a fashionable appearance. Theirgowns were calico; collars and cuffs of plain linen; and the whiteaprons they all wore were not fine nor ornamented. Only the old lady, who did no housework any longer, was dressed in a stuff gown, and worean apron of black silk. Charity, as I said, was knitting; so was hergrandmother. Madge was making more linen collars. Lois sat by hergrandmother's chair, for the minute doing nothing.

"What do you expect to do for a bonnet, Lois?" Charity broke thesilence.

"Or I either?" put in Madge. "Or you yourself, Charity? We are all inthe same box."

"I wish our hats were!" said the elder sister.

"I have not thought much about it," Lois answered. "I suppose, ifnecessary, I shall wear my straw."

"Then you'll have nothing to wear in the summer! It's robbing Peter topay Paul."

"Well," said Lois, smiling, – "if Paul's turn comes first. I cannot lookso long ahead as next summer."

"It'll be here before you can turn round," said Charity, whose knittingneedles flew without her having any occasion to watch them. "And then, straw is cold in winter."

"I can tie a comforter over my ears."

"That would look poverty-stricken."

"I suppose," said Madge slowly, "that is what we are. It looks like it, just now."

"'The Lord maketh poor and maketh rich,'" Mrs. Armadale said.

"Yes, mother," said Charity; "but our cow died because she was tetheredcarelessly."

"And our hay failed because there was no rain," Madge added. "And ourapples gave out because they killed themselves with bearing last year."

"You forget, child, it is the Lord 'that giveth rain, both the formerand the latter, in his season.'"

"But he didn't give it, mother; that's what I'm talking about; neither the former nor the latter; though what that means, I'm sure Idon't know; we have it all the year round, most years."

"Then be contented if a year comes when he does not send it."

"Grandmother, it'll do for you to talk; but what are we girls going todo without bonnets?"

"Do without," said Lois archly, with the gleam of her eye and the archof her pretty brow which used now and then to bewitch poor TomCaruthers.

"We have hardly apples to make sauce of," Charity went on. "If it hadbeen a good year, we could have got our bonnets with our apples, nicely. Now, I don't see where they are to come from."

"Don't wish for what the Lord don't send, child," said Mrs. Armadale.

"O mother! that's a good deal to ask," cried Charity. "It's very wellfor you, sitting in your arm-chair all the year round; but we have toput our heads out; and for one, I'd rather have something on them.Lois, haven't you got anything to do, that you sit there with yourhands in your lap?"

"I am going to the post-office," said Lois, rising; "the train's in. Iheard the whistle."

The village street lay very empty, this brown November day; and so, toLois's fancy, lay the prospect of the winter. Even so; brown andlightless, with a chill nip in the air that dampened rather thanencouraged energy. She was young and cheery-tempered; but perhaps therewas a shimmer yet in her memory of the colours on the Isles of Shoals;at any rate the village street seemed dull to her and the dayforbidding. She walked fast, to stir her spirits. The country aroundShampuashuh is flat; never a hill or lofty object of any kind rose uponher horizon to suggest wider look-outs and higher standing-points thanher present footing gave her. The best she could see was a glimpse ofthe distant Connecticut, a little light blue thread afar off; and Icannot tell why, what she thought of when she saw it was Tom Caruthers.I suppose Tom was associated in her mind with any wider horizon thanShampuashuh street afforded. Anyhow, Mr. Caruthers' handsome face camebe fore her; and a little, a very little, breath of regret escaped her, because it was a face she would see no more. Yet why should she wish tosee it? she asked herself. Mr. Caruthers could be nothing to her; henever could be anything to her; for he knew not and cared not to knoweither the joys or the obligations of religion, in which Lois's wholelife was bound up. However, though he could be nothing to her, Lois hada woman's instinctive perception that she herself was, or had been, something to him; and that is an experience a simple girl does noteasily forget. She had a kindness for him, and she was pretty sure hehad more than a kindness for her, or would have had, if his sister hadlet him alone. Lois went back to her Appledore experiences, revolvingand studying them, and understanding them a little better now, shethought, than at the time. At the time she had not understood them atall. It was just as well! she said to herself. She could never havemarried him. But why did his friends not want him to marry her? She wasin the depths of this problem when she arrived at the post-office.

The post-office was in the further end of a grocery store, or rather astore of varieties, such as country villages find convenient. Frombehind a little lattice the grocer's boy handed her a letter, with theremark that she was in luck to-day. Lois recognized Mrs. Wishart'shand, and half questioned the assertion. What was this? a newinvitation? That cannot be, thought Lois; I was with her so long lastwinter, and now this summer again for weeks and weeks – And, anyhow, Icould not go if she asked me. I could not even get a bonnet to go in; and I could not afford the money for the journey.

She hoped it was not an invitation. It is hard to have the cup set toyour lips, if you are not to drink it; any cup; and a visit to Mrs.Wishart was a very sweet cup to Lois. The letter filled her thoughtsall the way home; and she took it to her own room at once, to have thepleasure, or the pain, mastered before she told of it to the rest ofthe family. But in a very few minutes Lois came flying down-stairs, with light in her eyes and a sudden colour in her cheeks.

"Girls, I've got some news for you!" she burst in.

Charity dropped her knitting in her lap. Madge, who was setting thetable for tea, stood still with a plate in her hand. All eyes were onLois.

"Don't say news never comes! We've got it to-day."

"What? Who is the letter from?" said Charity.

"The letter is from Mrs. Wishart, but that does not tell you anything."

"O, if it is from Mrs. Wishart, I suppose the news only concerns you,"said Madge, setting down her plate.

"Mistaken!" cried Lois. "It concerns us all. Madge, don't go off. It issuch a big piece of news that I do not know how to begin to give it toyou; it seems as if every side of it was too big to take hold of for ahandle. Mother, listen, for it concerns you specially."

"I hear, child." And Mrs. Armadale looked interested and curious.

"It's delightful to have you all looking like that," said Lois, "and toknow it's not for nothing. You'll look more 'like that' when I've toldyou – if ever I can begin."

"My dear, you are quite excited," said the old lady.

"Yes, grandmother, a little. It's so seldom that anything happens, here."

"The days are very good, when nothing happens. I think," said the oldlady softly.

"And now something has really happened – for once. Prick up your ears,

Charity! Ah, I see they are pricked up already," Lois went on merrily.

"Now listen. This letter is from Mrs. Wishart."

"She wants you again!" cried Madge.

"Nothing of the sort. She asks – "

"Why don't you read the letter?"

"I will; but I want to tell you first. She says there is a certainfriend of a friend of hers – a very nice person, a widow lady, who wouldlike to live in the country if she could find a good place; and Mrs.Wishart wants to know, if we would like to have her in our house."

"To board?" cried Madge.

Lois nodded, and watched the faces around her.

"We never did that before," said Madge.

"No. The question is, whether we will do it now."

"Take her to board!" repeated Charity. "It would be a great bother.

What room would you give her?"

"Rooms. She wants two. One for a sitting-room."

"Two! We couldn't, unless we gave her our best parlour, and had nonefor ourselves. That wouldn't do."

"Unless she would pay for it," Lois suggested.

"How much would she pay? Does Mrs. Wishart say?"

"Guess, girls! She would pay – twelve dollars a week."

Charity almost jumped from her chair. Madge stood leaning with herhands upon the table and stared at her sister. Only the old grandmotherwent on now quietly with her knitting. The words were re-echoed by bothsisters.

"Twelve dollars a week! Fifty dollars a month!" cried Madge, andclapped her hands. "We can have bonnets all round; and the hay and theapples won't matter. Fifty dollars a month! Why, Lois! – "

"It would be an awful bother," said Charity.

"Mrs. Wishart says not. At least she says this lady – this Mrs.Barclay – is a delightful person, and we shall like her so much we shallnot mind the trouble. Besides, I do not think it will be so muchtrouble. And we do not use our parlour much. I'll read you the letternow."

So she did; and then followed an eager talk.

"She is a city body, of course. Do you suppose she will be contentedwith our ways of going on?" Charity queried.

"What ways do you mean?"

"Well – will our table suit her?"

"We can make it suit her," said Madge. "Just think – with fifty dollarsa month – "

"But we're not going to keep a cook," Charity went on. "I won't dothat. I can do all the work of the house, but I can't do half of it.And if I do the cooking, I shall do it just as I have always done it. Ican't go to fussing. It'll be country ways she'll be treated to; andthe question is, how she'll like 'em?"

"She can try," said Lois.

"And then, maybe she'll be somebody that'll take airs."

"Perhaps," said Lois, laughing; "but not likely. What if she did,

Charity? That would be her affair."

"It would be my affair to bear it," said Charity grimly.

"Daughters," said Mrs. Armadale gently, "suppose we have some tea."

This suggestion brought all to their bearings. Madge set the tablebriskly, Charity made the tea, Lois cut bread and made toast; andpresently talking and eating went on in the harmonious combinationwhich is so agreeable.

"If she comes," said Lois, "there must be curtains to the parlourwindows. I can make some of chintz, that will look pretty and not costmuch. And there must be a cover for the table."