Nobody

The fire was down in her own room; the gas was not lit; so she wentback to the bright drawing-room, which to-night she had all to herself.She laid her book on the table and opened it, and then was suddenlychecked by the question – what did all this matter to her, that sheshould be so fiercely eager about it? Dismay struck her anew. What wasany un-Christian man to her, that her heart should beat so atconsidering possible relations between them? No such relations weredesired by any such person; what ailed Lois even to take up thesubject? If Mr. Dillwyn liked either of the sisters particularly, itwas Madge. Probably his liking, if it existed, was no more than TomCaruthers', of which Lois thought with great scorn. Still, she argued, did it not concern her to know with certain'ty what Madge ought to do,in the event of Mr. Dillwyn being not precisely like Tom Caruthers?

CHAPTER XLIII
ABOUT WORK

The sound of the opening door made her start up. She would not haveeven a servant surprise her so; kneeling on the floor with her faceburied in her hands on the table. She started up hurriedly; and thenwas confounded to see entering – Mr. Dillwyn himself. She had heard noring of the door-bell; that must have been when she was up-stairsgetting her Bible. Lois found her feet, in the midst of a terribleconfusion of thoughts; but the very inward confusion admonished her tobe outwardly calm. She was not a woman of the world, and she had nothad very much experience in the difficult art of hiding her feelings,or acting in any way; nevertheless she was a true woman, and woman'sblessed – or cursed? – instinct of self-command came to her aid. She metMr. Dillwyn with a face and manner perfectly composed; she knew shedid; and cried to herself privately some thing very like a seacaptain's order to his helmsman – "Steady! keep her so." Mr. Dillwyn sawthat her face was flushed; but he saw, too, that he had disturbed herand startled her; that must be the reason. She looked so far from beingdelighted, that he could draw no other conclusion. So they shook hands.She thought he did not look delighted either. Of course, she thought,Madge was not there. And Mr. Dillwyn, whatever his mood when he came, recognized immediately the decided reserve and coolness of Lois'smanner, and, to use another nautical phrase, laid his courseaccordingly.

"How do you do, this evening?"

"I think, quite well. There is nobody at home but me, Mr. Dillwyn."

"So I have been told. But it is a great deal pleasanter here, even withonly one-third of the family, than it is in my solitary rooms at thehotel."

At that Lois sat down, and so did he. She could not seem to bid him goaway. However, she said —

"Mrs. Wishart has taken Madge to your sister's. It is the night of hermusic party."

"Why did not Mrs. Wishart take you?"

"I thought – it was better for me to stay at home," Lois answered, witha little hesitation.

"You are not afraid of an evening alone!"

"No, indeed; how could I be? Indeed, I think in New York it is rather aluxury."

Then she wished she had not said that. Would he think she meant tointimate that he was depriving her of a luxury? Lois was annoyed atherself; and hurried on to say something else, which she did not intendshould be so much in the same line as it proved. Indeed, she wasshocked the moment she had spoken.

"Don't you go to your sister's music parties, Mr. Dillwyn?"

"Not universally."

"I thought you were so fond of music" – Lois said apologetically.

"Yes," he said, smiling. "That keeps me away."

"I thought," – said Lois, – "I thought they said the music was so good?"

"I have no doubt they say it. And they mean it honestly."

"And it is not?"

"I find it quite too severe a tax on my powers of simulation anddissimulation. Those are powers you never call in play?" he added, witha most pleasant smile and glance at her.

"Simulation and dissimulation?" repeated Lois, who had by no means gother usual balance of mind or manner yet. "Are those powers which oughtto be called into play?"

"What are you going to do?"

"When?"

"When, for instance, you are in the mood for a grand theme of Handel, and somebody gives you a sentimental bit of Rossini. Or whenMendelssohn is played as if 'songs without words' were songs withoutmeaning. Or when a singer simply displays to you a VOICE, and leavesmusic out of the question altogether."

"That is hard!" said Lois.

"What is one to do then?"

"It is hard," Lois said again. "But I suppose one ought always to betrue."

"If I am true, I must say what I think."

"Yes. If you speak at all."

"What will they think then?"

"Yes," said Lois. "But, after all, that is not the first question."

"What is the first question?"

"I think – to do right."

"But what is right? What will people think of me, if I tell themtheir playing is abominable?"

"You need not say it just with those words," said Lois. "And perhaps,if anybody told them the truth, they would do better. At any rate, whatthey think is not the question, Mr. Dillwyn."

"What is the question?" he asked, smiling.

"What the Lord will think."

"Miss Lois, do you never use dissimulation?"

Lois could not help colouring, a little distressed.

"I try not," she answered. "I dare say I do, sometimes. I dare not say

I do not. It is very difficult for a woman to help it."

"More difficult for a woman than for a man?"

"I do not know. I suppose it is."

"Why should that be?"

"I do not know – unless because she is the weaker, and it may be part ofthe defensive armour of a weak animal."

Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little.

"But that is _dis_simulation," said Lois. "One is not bound always tosay all one thinks; only never to say what one does not think."

"You would always give a true answer to a question?"

"I would try."

"I believe it. And now, Miss Lois, in that trust, I am going to ask youa question. Do you recollect a certain walk in the rain?"

"Certainly!" she said, looking at him with some anxiety.

"And the conversation we held under the umbrella, without simulation ordissimulation?"

"Yes."

"You tacitly – perhaps more than tacitly – blamed me for having spent somuch of my life in idleness; that is uselessly, to all but myself."

"Did I?"

"You did. And I have thought about it since. And I quite agree with youthat to be idle is to be neither wise nor dignified. But here rises adifficulty. I think I would like to be of some use in the world, if Icould. But I do not know what to set about."

Lois waited, with silent attention.

"My question is this: How is a man to find his work in the world?"

Lois's eyes, which had been on his face, went away to the fire. His, which had been on the ground, rose to her face.

"I am in a fog," he said

"I believe every one has his work," Lois remarked.

"I think you said so."

"The Bible says so, at any rate."

"Then how is a man to find his work?" Philip asked, half smiling; atthe same time he drew up his chair a little nearer the fire, and beganto put the same in order. Evidently he was not going away immediately, and had a mind to talk out the subject. But why with her? And was henot going to his sister's? —

"If each one has, not only his work but his peculiar work, it must be avery important matter to make sure he has found it. A wheel in amachine can do its own work, but it cannot take the part of anotherwheel. And your words suppose an exact adjustment of parts and powers."

"The Bible words," said Lois.

"Yes. Well, to my question. I do not know what I ought to do, Miss

Lois. I do not see the work to my hand. How am I ever to be any wiser?"

"I am the last person you should ask. And besides, – I do not thinkanybody knows enough to set another his appointed task."

"How is he to find it, then?"

"He must ask the One who does know."

"Ask? —Pray, you mean?"

"Yes, pray. He must ask to be shown what he ought to do, and how to doit. God knows what place he is meant to fill in the world."

"And if he asks, will he be told?"

"Certainly. That is the promise. 'If any of you lack wisdom, let himask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; andit shall be given him.'"

Lois's eyes came over to her questioner at the last words, as it were, setting a seal to them.

"How will he get the answer? Suppose, for instance, I want wisdom; andI kneel down and pray that I may know my work. I rise from myprayer, – there is no voice, nor writing, nor visible sign; how am I thewiser?"

"You think it will not be given him?" Lois said, with a faint smile.

"I do not say that. I dare not. But how?"

"You must not think that, or the asking will be vain. You must believethe Lord's promise."

Lois was warming out of her reserve, and possibly Mr. Dillwyn had apurpose that she should; though I think he was quite earnest with hisquestion. But certainly he was watching her, as well as listening toher.

"Go on," he said. "How will the answer come to me?"

"There is another condition, too. You must be quite willing to hear theanswer."

"Why?"

"Else you will be likely to miss it. You know, Mr. Dillwyn, – you donot know much about housekeeping things, – but I suppose youunderstand, that if you want to weigh anything truly, your balance musthang even."

He smiled.

"Well, then, – Miss Lois?"

"The answer? It comes different ways. But it is sure to come. I thinkone way is this, – You see distinctly one thing you ought to do; it isnot life-work, but it is one thing. That is enough for one step. You dothat; and then you find that that one step has brought you where youcan see a little further, and another step is clear. That will do,"Lois concluded, smiling; "step by step, you will get where you want tobe."

Mr. Dillwyn smiled too, thoughtfully, as it were, to himself.

"Was it so that you went to teach school at that unlucky place? – whatdo you call it?"

"It was not unlucky. Esterbrooke. Yes, I think I went so."

"Was not that a mistake?"

"No, I think not."

"But your work there was broken up?"

"O, but I expect to go back again."

"Back! There? It is too unhealthy."

"It will not be unhealthy, when the railroad is finished."

"I am afraid it will, for some time. And it is too rough a place foryou."

"That is why they want me the more."

"Miss Lois, you are not strong enough."

"I am very strong!" she answered, with a delicious smile.

"But there is such a thing – don't you think so? – as fitness of means toends. You would not take a silver spade to break ground with?"

"I am not at all a silver spade," said Lois. "But if I were; suppose Ihad no other?"

"Then surely the breaking ground must be left to a differentinstrument."

"That won't do," said Lois, shaking her head. "The instrument cannotchoose, you know, where it will be employed. It does not know enoughfor that."

"But it made you ill, that work."

"I am recovering fast."

"You came to a good place for recovering," said Dillwyn, glancing roundthe room, and willing, perhaps, to leave the subject.

"Almost too good," said Lois. "It spoils one. You cannot imagine thecontrast between what I came from – and this. I have been like one indreamland. And there comes over me now and then a strange feeling ofthe inequality of things; almost a sense of wrong; the way I am caredfor is so very different from the very best and utmost that could bedone for the poor people at Esterbrooke. Think of my soups and creamsand ices and oranges and grapes! – and there, very often I could not geta bit of fresh beef to make beef-tea; and what could I do withoutbeef-tea? And what would I not have given for an orange sometimes! I donot mean, for myself. I could get hardly anything the sick peoplereally wanted. And here – it is like rain from the clouds."

"Where does the 'sense of wrong' come in?"

"It seems as if things need not be so unequal."

"And what does your silver spade expect to do there?"

"Don't say that! I have no silver spade. But just so far as I couldhelp to introduce better ways and a knowledge of better things, theinequality would be made up – or on the way to be made up."

"What refining measures are you thinking of? – beside your own presenceand example."

"I was certainly not thinking of that. Why, Mr. Dillwyn, knowledgeitself is refining; and then, so is comfort; and I could help them tomore comfort, in their houses, and in their meals. I began to teachthem singing, which has a great effect; and I carried all the picturesI had with me. Most of all, though, to bring them to a knowledge ofBible truth is the principal thing and the surest way. The rest isreally in order to that."

"Wasn't it very hard work?"

"No," said Lois. "Some things were hard; but not the work."

"Because you like it."

"Yes. O, Mr. Dillwyn, there is nothing pleasanter than to do one'swork, if it is work one is sure God has given."

"That must be because you love him," said Philip gravely. "Yet Iunderstand, that in the universal adjustment of things, the instrumentand its proper work must agree." He was silent a minute, and Lois didnot break the pause. If he would think, let him think, was her meaning.Then he began again.

"There are different ways. What would you think of a man who spent hiswhole life in painting?"

"I should not think that could be anybody's proper life-work."

"I think it was truly his, and he served God in it."

"Who was he?"

"A Catholic monk, in the fifteenth century."

"What did he paint? What was his name?"

"His name was Fra Angelico – by reason of the angelic character whichbelonged to him and to his paintings; otherwise Fra Giovanni; he was amonk in a Dominican cloister. He entered the convent when he was twentyyears old; and from that time, till he was sixty-eight, he served Godand his generation by painting."

Lois looked somewhat incredulous. Mr. Dillwyn here took from one of hispockets a small case, opened it and put it in her hands. It was anexcellent copy of a bit of Fra Angelico's work.

"That," he said as he gave it her, "is the head of one of FraAngelico's angels, from a group in a large picture. I had this copymade for myself some years ago – at a time when I only dimly felt whatnow I am beginning to understand."

Lois scarce heard what he said. From the time she received the picturein her hands she lost all thought of everything else. The unearthlybeauty and purity, the heavenly devotion and joy, seized her heart aswith a spell. The delicate lines of the face, the sweet colouring, thefinished, perfect handling, were most admirable; but it was themarvellous spiritual love and purity which so took possession of Lois.Her eyes filled and her cheeks flushed. It was, so far as paintingcould give it, the truth of heaven; and that goes to the heart of thehuman creature who perceives it. Mr. Dillwyn was watching her, meanwhile, and could look safely, secure that Lois was in no danger offinding it out; and while she, very likely, was thinking of thedistance between that angel face and her own, Philip, on the otherhand, was following the line of his sister's thought, and tracing thefancied likeness. Like one of Fra Angelico's angels! Yes, there was thesame sort of grave purity, of unworldly if not unearthly spiritualbeauty. Truly the rapt joy was not there, nor the unshadowed triumph; but love, – and innocence, – and humility, – and truth; and not a stain ofthe world upon it. Lois said not one word, but looked and looked, tillat last she tendered the picture back to its owner.

"Perhaps you would like to keep it," said he, "and show it to yoursister."

He brought it to have Madge see it! thought Lois. Aloud —

"No – she would enjoy it a great deal more if you showed it toher; – then you could tell her about it."

"I think you could explain it better."

As he made no motion to take back the picture, Lois drew in her handagain and took a further view. How beautiful was the fair, bright, rapt, blissful face of the angel! – as if, indeed, he were looking atheaven's glories.

"Did he – did the painter – always paint like this?"

"Always, I believe. He improved in his manner as he went on; he paintedbetter and better; but from youth to age he was incessantly doing theone thing, serving God with his pencil. He never painted for money; that is, not for himself; the money went into the church's treasury. Hedid not work for fame; much of his best work is upon the walls of themonks' cells, where few would see it. He would not receive office. Helived upon the Old and New Testaments, and prayer; and the one businessof his life was to show forth to the world what he believed, in suchbeautiful wise that they might be won to believe it too."

"That is exactly the work we have to do, – everybody," said Lois, lifting her eyes with a bright light in them. "I mean, everybody thatis a Christian. That is it; – to show forth Christ, and in such wisethat men may see and believe in him too. That is the word inPhilippians – 'shining as lights in the world, holding forth the word oflife.' I did not know it was possible to do it in painting – but I seeit is. O, thank you for showing me this! – it has done me good."

Her eyes were glistening as she gave him the picture again. Philip putit in security, in silence, and rose up.

"Well," said he, "now I will go and hear somebody play the 'Carnival of

Venice,' as if it were all rattle and no fun."

"Is that the way they play it?"

"It is the way some people play it. Good night."

The door closed after him, and Lois sat down alone before the fire again.

CHAPTER XLIV
CHOOSING A WIFE

She did not open her Bible to go on with the investigation Mr. Dillwynhad broken off. Now that he had just been with her in proper person, aninstinct of scared modesty fled from the question whether or no he werea man whom a Christian woman might marry. What was it to her? Lois saidto herself; what did it concern her, whether such a marriage werepermissible or no? Such a question would never come to her fordecision. To Madge, perhaps? But now the other question did ask forconsideration; – Why she winced at the idea that it might come to Madge?Madge did not share her sister's scruple; Madge had not made thepromise Lois had made; if Mr. Dillwyn asked her, she would accept him,Lois had little doubt. Perhaps he would ask her; and why, why did Loiswish he would not? For she perceived that the idea gave her pain. Whyshould it give her pain? For herself, the thing was a fixed fact; whatever the Bible said – and she knew pretty well what it said – forher, such a marriage was an impossibility. And why should she thinkabout it at all? nobody else was thinking about it. Fra Angelico'sangel came back to her mind; the clear, unshadowed eyes, the pure, gladface, the separateness from all earth's passions or pleasures, thelofty exaltation above them. So ought she to be. And then, while thisthought was warmest, came, shutting it out, the image of Mr. Dillwyn atthe music party; what he was doing there, how he would look and speak, how Madge would enjoy his attentions, and everything; and Lois suddenlyfelt as if she herself were very much alone. Not merely alone now,to-night; she had chosen this, and liked it; (did she like it?) – notnow, but all through her life. It suddenly seemed to Lois as if shewere henceforth to be always alone. Madge would no doubtmarry – somebody; and there was no home, and nobody to make home forLois. She had never thought of it before, but now she seemed to see itall quite clearly. Mrs. Barclay's work had been, to separate her, in acertain way, from her family and her surroundings. They fitted togetherno longer. Lois knew what they did not know; she had tastes which theydid not share, but which now were become part of her being; the societyin which she had moved all her life till two years, or three years, ago, could no longer content her. It was not inanimate nature, hergarden, her spade and her wheelbarrow, that seemed distasteful; Loiscould have gone into that work again with all her heart, and thought itno hardship; it was the mental level at which the people lived; thesocial level, in houses, tables, dress, and amusements, and manner; theaesthetic level of beauty, and grace, and fitness, or at least theperception of them. Lois pondered and revolved this all till she beganto grow rather dreary. Think of the Esterbrooke school, and of beingalone there! Rough, rude, coarse boys and girls; untaught, untamed, ungovernable, except by an uncommon exertion of wisdom and will; longdays of hard labour, nights of common food and sleep, with no delicatearrangements for either, and social refreshment utterly out of thequestion. And Madge away; married, perhaps, and travelling in Europe, and seeing Fra Angelico's paintings. Then the angel's face recurred toLois, and she pulled herself up. The angel's face and the painter'shistory both confronted her. On one hand, the seraphic purity and joyof a creature who knew no will but God's will; on the other hand, thequiet, patient life, which had borne such fruits. Four hundred yearsago, Fra Angelico painted; and ever since his work had been bearingwitness to God's truth and salvation; was even at that minute teachingand admonishing herself. What did it signify just how her own workshould be done, if only it were like work? What matter whether rough orsmooth, alone or in company? Where the service is to be done, there theMaster puts his servant; what the service is, he knows; for theservant, all that he has to take care of is, that step by step hefollow where he is led, and everywhere, and by all means in his power, that he show forth Christ to men. Then something like that angel'ssecurity would be with him all the way, and something like that angel'sjoy be at the end of it. The little picture had helped and comfortedLois amazingly, and she went to bed with a heart humbled and almostcontented.

She went, however, in good time, before Madge could return home; shedid not want to hear the outflow of description and expatiation whichmight be expected. And Madge indeed found her so seemingly sleepy, thatshe was forced to give up talking and come to bed too. But all Lois hadgained was a respite. The next morning, as soon as they were awake,Madge began.

"Lois, we had a grand time last night! You were so stupidly asleep when

I came home, I couldn't tell you. We had a beautiful time! O Lois, Mrs.

Burrage's house is just magnificent!"

"I suppose so."

"The floors are all laid in patterns of different coloured woods – asort of mosaic – "

"Parquetry."

"What? – I call it mosaic, with centre-pieces and borders, – O, elegant!

And they are smooth and polished; and then carpets and rugs of all sorts are laid about; and it's most beautiful. She has got one of those

Persian carpets she was telling about, Lois."

"I dare say."

"And the walls are all great mirrors, or else there is the richest sortof drapery – curtains, or hangings; and the prettiest painted walls. AndO, Lois, the flowers! – "

"Where were they?"

"Everywhere! On tables, and little shelves on the wall – "

"Brackets."

"O, well! – shelves they are, call them what you like; and stands ofplants and pots of plants – the whole place was sweet with the smell, and green with the leaves, and brilliant with the flowers – "

"Seems to have been brilliant generally."

"So it was, just brilliant, with all that, and with the lights, andwith the people."

"Were the people brilliant too?"

"And the playing."

"O, – the playing!"

"Everybody said so. It wasn't like Mrs. Barclay's playing."

"What was it like?"

"It looked like very hard work, to me. My dear, I saw the drops ofsweat standing on one man's forehead; – he had been playing a prettylong piece," Madge added, by way of accounting for things. "I never sawanything like it, in all my life!"

"Like what? – sweat on a man's forehead?"

"Like the playing. Don't be ridiculous."

"It is not I," said Lois, who meanwhile had risenn and was gettingdressed. Madge was doing the same, talking all the while. "So theplaying was something to be seen. What was the singing?"

Madge stood still, comb in hand. "I don't know!" she said gravely. Loiscould not help laughing.

"Well, I don't," Madge went on. "It was so queer, some of it, I did notknow which way to look. Some of it was regular yelling, Lois; and ifpeople are going to yell, I'd rather have it out-of-doors. But oneman – I think he thought he was doing it remarkably well – the goings upand down of his voice – "

"Cadences – "

"Well, the cadences if you choose; they made me think of nothing butthe tones of the lions and other beasts in the menagerie. Don't youknow how they roar up and down? first softly and then loud? I hadeverything in the world to do not to laugh out downright. He wassinging something meant to be very pathetic; and it was absolutelykilling."

"It was not all like that, I suppose?"

"No. There was some I liked. But nothing one-half so good as yoursinging a hymn, Lois. I wish you could have been there to give themone. Only you could not sing a hymn in such a place."

"Why not?"

"Why, because! It would be out of place."

"I would not go anywhere where a hymn would be out of place."

"That's nonsense. But O, how the people were dressed, Lois! Brilliant!

O you may well say so. It took away my breath at first"

"You got it again, I hope?"

"Yes. But O, Lois, it is nice to have plenty of money."

"Well, yes. And it is nice not to have it – if the Lord makes it so."

"Makes what so? You are very unsympathetic this morning, Lois! But ifyou had only been there. O Lois, there were one or two fur rugs – furskins for rugs, – the most beautiful things I ever saw. One was aleopard's skin, with its beautiful spots; the other was white and thickand fluffy – I couldn't find out what it was."

"Bear, maybe."

"Bear! O Lois – those two skins finished me! I kept my head for a while, with all the mosaic floors and rich hangings and flowers anddresses, – but those two skins took away the little sense I had left.They looked so magnificent! so luxurious."

"They are luxurious, no doubt."

"Lois, I don't see why some people should have so much, and others solittle."

"The same sort of question that puzzled David once."

"Why should Mrs. Burrage have all that, and you and I have only yellowpainted floors and rag carpets?"

"I don't want 'all that.'"

"Don't you?"

"No."

"I do."

"Madge, those things do not make people happy."

"It's all very well to say so, Lois. I should like just to try once."

"How do you like Mrs. Burrage?"

Madge hesitated a trifle.

"She is pleasant, – pretty, and clever, and lively; she went flyingabout among the people like a butterfly, stopping a minute here and aminute there, but I guess it was not to get honey but to give it. Shewas a little honeyfied to me, but not much. I don't – think" – (slowly)"she liked to see her brother making much of me."

Lois was silent.

"He was there; I didn't tell you. He came a little late. He said he hadbeen here, and as he didn't find us he came on to his sister's."

"He was here a little while."

"So he said. But he was so good, Lois! He was very good. He talked tome, and told me about things, and took care of me, and gave me supper.I tell you, I thought madam his sister looked a little askance at himonce or twice. I know she tried to get him away."

Lois again made no answer.

"Why should she, Lois?"

"Maybe you were mistaken."

"I don't think I was mistaken. But why should she, Lois?"

"Madge, dear, you know what I told you."

"About what?"

"About that; people's feelings. You and I do not belong to this gay, rich world; we are not rich, and we are not fashionable, and we do notlive as they live, in any way; and they do not want us; why shouldthey?"

"We should not hurt them!" said Madge indignantly.

"Nor be of any use or pleasure to them."

"There isn't a girl among them all to compare with you, as far as looksgo."

"I am afraid that will not help the matter," said Lois, smiling; butthen she added with earnest and almost anxious eagerness,

"Madge, dear, don't think about it! Happiness is not there; and whatGod gives us is best. Best for you and best for me. Don't you wish forriches! – or for anything we haven't got. What we have to do, is to liveso as to show forth Christ and his truth before men."

"Very few do that," said Madge shortly.

"Let us be some of the few."

"I'd like to do it in high places, then," said Madge. "O, you needn'ttalk, Lois! It's a great deal nicer to have a leopard skin under yourfeet than a rag-carpet."

Lois could not help smiling, though something like tears was gathering.

"And I'd rather have Mr. Dillwyn take care of me than uncle Tim

Hotchkiss."

The laughter and the tears came both more unmistakeably. Lois felt alittle hysterical. She finished dressing hurriedly, and heard as littleas possible of Madge's further communications.

It was a few hours later, that same morning, that Philip Dillwynstrolled into his sister's breakfast-room. It was a room at the back ofthe house, the end of a suite; and from it the eye roved throughhalf-drawn portières and between rows of pillars, along a vista ofthe parquetted floors Madge had described to her sister; catching herethe glitter of gold from a picture frame, and there a gleam of whitefrom a marble figure, through the half light which reigned there. Inthe breakfast-room it was bright day; and Mrs. Burrage was finishingher chocolate and playing with bits of dry toast, when her brother camein. Philip had hardly exchanged greetings and taken his seat, when hisattention was claimed by Mrs. Burrage's young son and heir, whoforthwith thrust himself between his uncle's knees, a bat in one hand,a worsted ball in the other.

"Uncle Phil, mamma says her name usen't to be Burrage – it was yourname?"

"That is correct."

"If it was your name once, why isn't it your name now?"

"Because she changed it and became Burrage."

"What made her be Burrage?"

"That is a deep question in mental philosophy, which I am unable toanswer, Chauncey."

"She says, it's because she married papa."

"Does not your mother generally speak truth?"

Young Philip Chauncey seemed to consider this question; and finallywaiving it, went on pulling at a button of his uncle's coat in theenergy of his inquiries.

"Uncle Phil, you haven't got a wife?"

"No."

"Why haven't you?"