The day was a more than commonly busy one, so that the usual hours oflessons in Mrs. Barclay's room did not come off. It was not till latein the afternoon that Lois went to her friend, to tell her that Mrs.Marx would send her little carriage in about an hour to fetch hermother, and that Mrs. Barclay also might ride if she would. Mrs.Barclay was sitting in her easy-chair before the fire, doing nothing, and on receipt of this in formation turned a very shadowed face towardsthe bringer of it.

"What will you say to me, if after all your aunt's kindness in askingme, I do not go?"

"Not go? You are not well?" inquired Lois anxiously.

"I am quite well – too well!"

"But something is the matter?"

"Nothing new."

"Dear Mrs. Barclay, can I help you?"

"I do not think you can. I am tired, Lois!"

"Tired! O, that is spending so much time giving lessons to Madge andme! I am so sorry."

"It is nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Barclay, stretching out her handto take one of Lois's, which she retained in her own. "If anythingwould take away this tired feeling, it is just that, Lois. Nothingrefreshes me so much, or does me so much good."

"Then what tires you, dear Mrs. Barclay?"

Lois's face showed unaffected anxiety. Mrs. Barclay gave the hand sheheld a little squeeze.

"It is nothing new, my child," she said, with a faint smile. "I amtired of life."

Looking at the girl, as she spoke, she saw how unable her listener'smind was to comprehend her. Lois looked puzzled.

"You do not know what I mean?" she said.

"Hardly – "

"I hope you never will. It is a miserable feeling. It is like what Ican fancy a withered autumn leaf feeling, if it were a sentient andintelligent thing; – of no use to the branch which holds it – freshnessand power gone – no reason for existence left – its work all done. Only Inever did any work, and was never of any particular use."

"O, you cannot mean that!" cried Lois, much troubled and perplexed.

"I keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that wasfound under the dead soldier's pillow. The words run in my head, andwake echoes.

'I lay me down to sleep,
With little thought or care
Whether the waking find
Me here, or there.

'A bowing, burdened head – '"

But here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes Loissaw, or guessed, that she could not go on.

"Never mind that verse," she said, beginning again; "it is the next. Doyou remember? —

'My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now.
To march the weary march,
I know not how.

'I am not eager, bold,
Nor brave; all that is past.
I am ready not to do,
At last, at last! – '

I am too young to feel so," Mrs. Barclay went on, after a pause which

Lois did not break; "but that is how I feel to-day."

"I do not think one need – or ought – at any age," Lois said gently; buther words were hardly regarded.

"Do you hear that wind?" said Mrs. Barclay. "It has been singing andsighing in the chimney in that way all the afternoon."

"It is Christmas," said Lois. "Yes, it often sings so, and I like it. Ilike it especially at Christmas time."

"It carries me back – years. It takes me to my old home, when I was achild. I think it must have sighed so round the house then. It takes meto a time when I was in my fresh young life and vigour – the unfoldingleaf – when life was careless and cloudless; and I have a kind ofhome-sickness to-night for my father and mother. – Of the days sincethat time, I dare not think."

Lois saw that rare tears had gathered in her friend's eyes, slowly andfew, as they come to people with whom hope is a lost friend; and herheart was filled with a great pang of sympathy. Yet she did not knowhow to speak. She recalled the verse of the soldier's hymn which Mrs.Barclay had passed over —

"A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast."

She thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? She satstill and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better thanany words could have done it. And perhaps Mrs. Barclay felt it so, forshe presently went on after a manner which was not like her usualreserve.

"O that wind! O that wind! It sweeps away all that has been between, and puts home and my childhood before me. But it makes me home-sick,Lois!"

"Cannot you go on with the hymn, dear Mrs. Barclay? You know how itgoes, —

'My half day's work is done;
And this is all my part —
I give a patient God
My patient heart.'"

"What does he want with it?" said the weary woman beside her.

"What? O, it is the very thing he wants of us, and of you; the onething he cares about! That we would love him."

"I have not done a half day's work," said the other; "and my heart isnot patient. It is only tired, and dead."

"It is not that," said Lois. "How very, very good you have been to

Madge and me!"

"You have been good to me. And, as your grandmother quoted thismorning, no thanks are due when we only love those who love us. Myheart does not seem to be alive, Lois. You had better go to your aunt'swithout me, dear. I should not be good company."

"But I cannot leave you so!" exclaimed Lois; and she left her seat andsank upon her knees at her friend's side, still clasping the hand thathad taken hers. "Dear Mrs. Barclay, there is help."

"If you could give it, there would be, you pretty creature!" said Mrs.Barclay, with her other hand pushing the beautiful masses of red-brownhair right and left from Lois's brow.

"But there is One who can give it, who is stronger than I, and lovesyou better."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because he has promised. 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and areheavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'"

Mrs. Barclay said nothing, but she shook her head.

"It is a promise," Lois repeated. "It is a PROMISE. It is the King'spromise; and he never breaks his word."

"How do you know, my child? You have never been where I am."

"No," said Lois, "not there. I have never felt just so."

"I have had all that life could give. I have had it, and knew I had it.

And it is all gone. There is nothing left."

"There is this left," said Lois eagerly, "which you have not tried."

"What?"

"The promise of Christ."

"My dear, you do not know what you are talking of. Life is in itsspring with you."

"But I know the King's promise," said Lois.

"How do you know it?"

"I have tried it."

"But you have never had any occasion to try it, you heart-soundcreature!" said Mrs. Barclay, with again a caressing, admiring touch ofLois's brow.

"O, but indeed I have. Not in need like yours – I have never touchedthat– I never felt like that; but in other need, as great and asterrible. And I know, and everybody else who has ever tried knows, thatthe Lord keeps his word."

"How have you tried?" Mrs. Barclay asked abstractedly.

"I needed the forgiveness of sin," said Lois, letting her voice fall alittle, "and deliverance from it."

"You!" said Mrs. Barclay.

"I was as unhappy as anybody could be till I got it."

"When was that?"

"Four years ago."

"Are you much different now from what you were before?"

"Entirely."

"I cannot imagine you in need of forgiveness. What had you done?"

"I had done nothing whatever that I ought to have done. I loved onlymyself, – I mean first, – and lived only to myself and my own pleasure, and did my own will."

"Whose will do you now? your grandmother's?"

"Not grandmother's first. I do God's will, as far as I know it."

"And therefore you think you are forgiven?"

"I don't think, I know," said Lois, with a quick breath. "And it isnot 'therefore' at all; it is because I am covered, or my sin is, withthe blood of Christ. And I love him; and he makes me happy."

"It is easy to make you happy, dear. To me there is nothing left in theworld, nor the possibility of anything. That wind is singing a dirge inmy ears; and it sweeps over a desert. A desert where nothing green willgrow any more!"

The words were spoken very calmly; there was no emotion visible thateither threatened or promised tears; a dull, matter-of-fact, perfectlyclear and quiet utterance, that almost broke Lois's heart. The waterthat was denied to the other eyes sprang to her own.

"It was in the wilderness that the people were fed with manna," shesaid, with a great gush of feeling in both heart and voice. "It waswhen they were starving and had no food, just then, that they got thebread from heaven."

"Manna does not fall now-a-days," said Mrs. Barclay with a faint smile.

"O yes, it does! There is your mistake, because you do not know. Itdoes come. Look here, Mrs. Barclay – "

She sprang up, went for a Bible which lay on one of the tables, and, dropping on her knees again by Mrs. Barclay's side, showed her an openpage.

"Look here – 'I am the bread of life; he that cometh to me shall neverhunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst… This is thebread which cometh down from heaven, that a man may eat thereof and notdie.' Not die of weariness, nor of anything else."

Mrs. Barclay did look with a little curiosity at the words Lois heldbefore her, but then she put down the book and took the girl in herarms, holding her close and laying her own head on Lois's shoulder.Whether the words had moved her, Lois could not tell, or whether it wasthe power of her own affection and sympathy; Mrs. Barclay did notspeak, and Lois did not dare add another word. They were still, wrappedin each other's arms, and one or two of Lois's tears wet the otherwoman's cheek; and there was no movement made by either of them; untilthe door was suddenly opened and they sprang apart.

"Here's Mr. Midgin," announced the voice of Miss Charity. "Shall hecome in? or ain't there time? Of all things, why can't folks chooseconvenient times for doin' what they have to do! It passes me. It'sbecause it's a sinful world, I suppose. But what shall I tell him? togo about his business, and come New Year's, or next Fourth of July?"

"You do not want to see him now?" said Lois hastily. But Mrs. Barclayroused herself, and begged that he might come in. "It is the carpenter,I suppose," said she.

Mr. Midgin was a tall, loose-jointed, large-featured man, with anundecided cast of countenance, and slow movements; which fitted oddlyto his big frame and powerful muscles. He wore his working suit, whichhung about him in a flabby way, and entered Mrs. Barclay's room withhis hat on. Hat and all, his head made a little jerk of salutation tothe lady.

"Good arternoon!" said he. "Sun'thin' I kin do here?"

"Yes, Mr. Midgin – I left word for you three days ago," said Lois.

"Jest so. I heerd. And here I be. Wall, I never see a room with so manybooks in it! Lois, you must be like a cow in clover, if you're half asfond of 'em as I be."

"You are fond of reading, Mr. Midgin?" said Mrs. Barclay.

"Wall, I think so. But what's in 'em all?" He came a step further intothe room and picked up a volume from the table. Mrs. Barclay watchedhim. He opened the book, and stood still, eagerly scanning the page, for a minute or two.

"'Lamps of Architectur'," said he, looking then at thetitle-page; – "that's beyond me. The only lamps of architectur that I ever see, in Shampuashuh anyway, is them that stands up at the depot,by the railroad; but here's 'truth,' and 'sacrifice,' and I don' knowwhat all; 'hope' and 'love,' I expect. Wall, them's good lamps to lightup anythin' by; only I don't make out whatever they kin have to do withbuildin's." He picked up an other volume.

"What's this?" said he. "'Tain't my native tongue. What do ye callit, Lois?"

"That is French, Mr. Midgin."

"That's French, eh?" said he, turning over the leaves. "I want to know!

Don't look as though there was any sense in it. What is it about, now?"

"It is a story of a man who was king of Rome a great while ago."

"King o' Rome! What was his name? Not Romulus and Remus, I s'pose?"

"No; but he came just after Romulus."

"Did, hey? Then you s'pose there ever was sich a man as Romulus?"

"Probably," Mrs. Barclay now said. "When a story gets form and lives, there is generally some thing of fact to serve as foundation for it."

"You think that?" said the carpenter. "Wall, I kin tell you storiesthat had form enough and life enough in 'em, to do a good deal o' work; and that yet grew up out o' nothin' but smoke. There was GovernorDenver; he was governor o' this state for quite a spell; and he was aShampuashuh man, so we all knew him and thought lots o' him. He was sotagainst drinking. Mebbe you don't think there's no harm in wine and thelike?"

"I have not been accustomed to think there was any harm in itcertainly, unless taken immoderately."

"Ay, but how're you goin' to fix what's moderately? there's the pinch.What's a gallon for me's only a pint for you. Wall, Governor Denverdidn't believe in havin' nothin' to do with the blamed stuff; and hehad taken the pledge agin it, and he was known for an out and outtemperance man; teetotal was the word with him. Wall, his daughter wasmarried, over here at New Haven; and they had a grand weddin', and agood many o' the folks was like you, they thought there was no harm init, if one kept inside the pint, you know; and there was enough foreverybody to hev had his gallon. And then they said the Governor hadtaken his glass to his daughter's health, or something like that. Wall, all Shampuashuh was talkin' about it, and Governor Denver's friends washangin' their heads, and didn't know what to say; for whatever a manthinks, – and thoughts is free, – he's bound to stand to what he says,and particularly if he has taken his oath upon it. So Governor Denver'sfriends was as worried as a steam-vessel in a fog, when she can't hearthe 'larm bells; and one said this and t'other said that. And at last Icouldn't stand it no longer; and I writ him a letter – to the Governor; and says I, 'Governor,' says I, 'did you drink wine at your daughterLottie's weddin' at New Haven last month?' And if you'll believe me, hewrit me back, 'Jonathan Midgin, Esq. Dear sir, I was in New York theday you mention, shakin' with chills and fever, and never got toLottie's weddin' at all.' – What do you think o' that? Overturns yourtheory a leetle, don't it? Warn't no sort o' foundation for that story; and yet it did go round, and folks said it was so."

"It is a strong story for your side, Mr. Midgin, undoubtedly."

"Ain't it! La! bless you, there's nothin' you kin be sartain of in thisworld. I don't believe in no Romulus and his wolf. Half o' all thesebooks, now, I have no doubt, tells lies; and the other half, you don'know which 'tis."

"I cannot throw them away however, just yet; and so, Mr. Midgin, I wantsome shelves to keep them off the floor."

"I should say you jest did! Where'll you put 'em?"

"The shelves? All along that side of the room, I think. And about sixfeet high."

"That'll hold 'em," said Mr. Midgin, as he applied his measuring rule.

"Jest shelves? or do you want a bookcase fixed up all reg'lar?"

"Just shelves. That is the prettiest bookcase, to my thinking."

"That's as folks looks at it," said Mr. Midgin, who apparently was of adifferent opinion. "What'll they be? Mahogany, or walnut, or cherry, ormaple, or pine? You kin stain 'em any colour. One thing's handsome, andanother thing's cheap; and I don' know yet whether you want 'em cheapor handsome."

"Want 'em both, Mr. Midgin," said Lois.

"H'm! – Well – maybe there's folks that knows how to combine bothadvantages – but I'm afeard I ain't one of 'em. Nothin' that's cheap'shandsome, to my way o' thinkin'. You don't make much count o' cheapthings here anyhow," said he, surveying the room. And then he beganhis measurements, going round the sides of the apartment to apply hisrule to all the plain spaces; and Mrs. Barclay noticed how tenderly hehandled the books which he had to move out of his way. Now and then hestopped to open one, and stood a minute or two peering into it. Allthis while his hat was on.

"Should like to read that," he remarked, with a volume of Macaulay'sEssays in his hands. "That's well written. But a man can't read all theworld," he went on, as he laid it out of his hands again. "'Much studyis a weariness to the flesh.' Arter all, I don't suppose a man'd be nowiser if he'd read all you've got here. The biggest fool I ever knowed, was the man that had read the most."

"How did he show his folly?" Mrs. Barclay asked.

"Wall, it's a story. Lois knows. He was dreadfully sot on a littlegrandchild he had; his chil'n was all dead, and he had jest this oneleft; she was a little girl. And he never left her out o' his sight, nor she him; until one day he had to go to Boston for some business; and he couldn't take her; and he said he knowed some harm'd come. Doyou believe in presentiments."

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Barclay.

"How should a man have presentiments o' what's comin'?"

"I cannot answer that."

"No, nor nobody else. It ain't reason. I believe the presentimentsmakes the things come."

"Was that the case in this instance?"

"Wall, I don't see how it could. When he come back from Boston, thelittle girl was dead; but she was as well as ever when he went away.Ain't that curious?"

"Certainly; if it is true."

"I'm tellin' you nothin' but the truth. The hull town knows it. 'Tain'tno secret. 'Twas old Mr. Roderick, you know, Lois; lived up yonder onthe road to the ferry. And after he come back from the funeral he shuthimself up in the room where his grandchild had been – and nobody eversee him no more from that day, 'thout 'twas the folks in the house; andthere warn't many o' them; but he never went out. An' he never went outfor seven years; and at the end o' seven years he had to – there wasmoney in it – and folks that won't mind nothin' else, they minds Mammon, you know; so he went out. An' as soon as he was out o' the house, hiswomen-folks, they made a rush for his room, fur to clean it; for, ifyou'll believe me, it hadn't been cleaned all those years; and I expect'twas in a condition; but the women likes nothin' better; and as theyopened some door or other, of a closet or that, out runs a little whitemouse, and it run clear off; they couldn't catch it any way, and theytried every way. It was gone, and they were scared, for they knowed theold gentleman's ways. It wasn't a closet either it was in, but somepiece o' furniture; I'm blessed ef I can remember what they called it.The mouse was gone, and the women-folks was scared; and to be sure, when Mr. Roderick come home he went as straight as a line to that theredoor where the mouse was; and they say he made a terrible rumpus whenhe couldn't find it; but arter that the spell was broke, like; and helived pretty much as other folks. Did you say six feet?"

"That will be high enough. And you may leave a space of eight or tenfeet on that side, from window to window."

"Thout any?"

"Yes."

"That'll be kind o' lop-sided, won't it? I allays likes to see thingssamely. What'll you do with all that space of emptiness? It'll lookawful bare."

"I will put something else there. What do you suppose the white mousehad to do with your old gentleman's seclusion?"

"Seclusion? Livin' shut up, you mean? Why, don't ye see, he believedthe mouse was the sperrit o' the child – leastways the sperrit o' thechild was in it. You see, when he got back from the funeral the firstthing his eyes lit upon was that ere white mouse; and it was white, yousee, and that ain't a common colour for a mouse; and it got into hishead, and couldn't get out, that that was Ella's sperrit. It mought ha'ben, for all I can say; but arter that day, it was gone."

"You think the child's spirit might have been in the mouse?"

"Who knows? I never say nothin' I don't know, nor deny nothin' I du know; ain't that a good principle?"

"But you know better than that, Mr. Midgin," said Lois.

"Wall, I don't! Maybe you do, Lois; but accordin' to my lights Idon't know. You'll hev 'em walnut, won't you? that'll look more likefurniture."

"Are you coming? The waggon's here, Lois," said Madge, opening thedoor. "Is Mrs. Barclay ready?"

"Will be in two minutes," replied that lady. "Yes, Mr. Midgin, let thembe walnut; and good evening! Yes, Lois, I am quite roused up now, and Iwill go with you. I will walk, dear; I prefer it."