"What's this?" said he. "'Tain'tmynative tongue. What do ye call it, 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 everwassich 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 stories that 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 Governor Denver; he was governor o' this state for quite a spell; and he was a Shampuashuh man, so we all knew him and thought lots o' him. He was sot against drinking. Mebbe you don't think there's no harm in wine and the like?"
"I have not been accustomed to think there was any harm in it certainly, 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 Denver didn't believe in havin' nothin' to do with the blamed stuff; and he had taken the pledge agin it, and he was known for an out and out temperance man; teetotal was the word with him. Wall, his daughter was married, over here at New Haven; and they had a grand weddin', and a good many o' the folks was like you, they thought there was no harm in it, if one kept inside the pint, you know; and there was enough for everybody to hev had his gallon. And then they said the Governor had taken his glass to his daughter's health, or something like that. Wall, all Shampuashuh was talkin' about it, and Governor Denver's friends was hangin' their heads, and didn't know what to say; for whatever a man thinks,—and thoughts is free,—he's bound to stand to what hesays, and particularly if he has taken his oath upon it. So Governor Denver's friends was as worried as a steam-vessel in a fog, when she can't hear the 'larm bells; and one said this and t'other said that. And at last I couldn't stand it no longer; and I writ him a letter—to the Governor; and says I, 'Governor,' says I, 'didyou drink wine at your daughter Lottie's weddin' at New Haven last month?' And if you'll believe me, he writ me back, 'Jonathan Midgin, Esq. Dear sir, I was in New York the day you mention, shakin' with chills and fever, and never got to Lottie's weddin' at all.'—What do you think o' that? Overturns your theory 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 this world. I don't believe in no Romulus and his wolf. Half o' all these books, 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 want some 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 six feet 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 a different opinion. "What'll they be? Mahogany, or walnut, or cherry, or maple, or pine? You kin stain 'em any colour. One thing's handsome, and another thing's cheap; and I don' know yet whether you want 'em cheap or handsome."
"Want 'em both, Mr. Midgin," said Lois.
"H'm!— Well—maybe there's folks that knows how to combine both advantages—but I'm afeard I ain't one of 'em. Nothin' that's cheap's handsome, to my way o' thinkin'. You don't make much count o' cheap thingshereanyhow," said he, surveying the room. And then he began his measurements, going round the sides of the apartment to apply his rule to all the plain spaces; and Mrs. Barclay noticed how tenderly he handled the books which he had to move out of his way. Now and then he stopped to open one, and stood a minute or two peering into it. All this while his hat was on.
"Should like to read that," he remarked, with a volume of Macaulay's Essays in his hands. "That's well written. But a man can't read all the world," he went on, as he laid it out of his hands again. "'Much study is a weariness to the flesh.' Arter all, I don't suppose a man'd be no wiser 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 little grandchild he had; his chil'n was all dead, and he had jest this one left; 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. Do you 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 presentiments makes the things come."
"Was that the case in this instance?"
"Wall, I don't see how it could. When he come back from Boston, the little 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't no secret. 'Twas old Mr. Roderick, you know, Lois; lived up yonder on the road to the ferry. And after he come back from the funeral he shut himself up in the room where his grandchild had been—and nobody ever see him no more from that day, 'thout 'twas the folks in the house; and there warn't many o' them; but he never went out. An' he never went out for seven years; and at the end o' seven years hehadto—there was money 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, his women-folks, they made a rush for his room, fur to clean it; for, if you'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 they opened some door or other, of a closet or that, out runs a little white mouse, and it run clear off; they couldn't catch it any way, and they tried every way. It was gone, and they were scared, for they knowed the old gentleman's ways. It wasn't a closet either it was in, but some piece 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 there door where the mouse was; and they say he made a terrible rumpus when he couldn't find it; but arter that the spell was broke, like; and he lived pretty much as other folks. Did you say six feet?"
"That will be high enough. And you may leave a space of eight or ten feet 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 things samely. What'll you do with all that space of emptiness? It'll look awful bare."
"I will put something else there. What do you suppose the white mouse had to do with your old gentleman's seclusion?"
"Seclusion? Livin' shut up, you mean? Why, don't ye see, he believed the mouse was the sperrit o' the child—leastways the sperrit o' the child was in it. You see, when he got back from the funeral the first thing his eyes lit upon was that ere white mouse; and it was white, you see, and that ain't a common colour for a mouse; and it got into his head, 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' Iduknow; 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'tknow. You'll hev 'em walnut, won't you? that'll look more like furniture."
"Are you coming? The waggon's here, Lois," said Madge, opening the door. "Is Mrs. Barclay ready?"
"Will be in two minutes," replied that lady. "Yes, Mr. Midgin, let them be walnut; and good evening! Yes, Lois, I am quite roused up now, and I will go with you. I will walk, dear; I prefer it."
Mrs. Barclay seemed to have entirely regained her usual composure and even her usual spirits, which indeed were never high. She said she enjoyed the walk, which she and Lois took in company, Madge having gone with her grandmother and Charity in Mrs. Marx's waggon. The winter evening was falling grey, and the grey was growing dark; and there was something in the dusky stillness, and soft, half-defined lines of the landscape, with the sharp, crisp air, which suited the mood of both ladies. The stars were not visible yet; the western horizon had still a glow left from the sunset; and houses and trees stood like dark solemn ghosts along the way before the end of the walk was reached. They talked hardly at all, but Mrs. Barclay said when she got to Mrs. Marx's, that the walk had been delightful.
At Mrs. Marx's all was in holiday perfection of order; though that was the normal condition of things, indeed, where that lady ruled. The paint of the floors was yellow and shining; the carpets were thick and bright; the table was set with great care; the great chimney in the upper kitchen where the supper was prepared, was magnificent with its blazing logs. So was a lesser fireplace in the best parlour, where the guests were first received; but supper was ready, and they adjourned to the next room. There the table invited them most hospitably, loaded with dainties such as people in the country can get at Christmas time. One item of the entertainment not usual at Christmas time was a roast pig; its brown and glossy back making a very conspicuous object at one side of the board.
"I thought I'd surprise you all," remarked the satisfied hostess; for she knew the pig was done to a turn; "and anything you don't expect tastes twice as good. I knew ma' liked pig better'n anything; and I think myself it's about the top sheaf. I suppose nothin' can be a surprise to Mrs. Barclay."
"Why do you suppose so?" asked that lady.
"I thought you'd seen everything there was in the world, and a little more."
"Never saw a roast pig before in my life. But I have read of them."
"Read of them!" exclaimed their hostess. "In a cook-book, likely?"
"Alas! I never read a cook-book."
"No more didn't I; but you'll excuse me, I didn't believe you carried it all in your head, like we folks."
"I have not a bit of it in my head, if you mean the art of cookery. I have a profound respect for it; but I know nothing about it whatever."
"Well, you're right to have a respect for it. Uncle Tim, do you just give Mrs. Barclay some of the best of that pig, and let us see how she likes it. And the stuffing, uncle Tim, and the gravy; and plenty of the crackle. Mother, it's done just as you used to do it."
Mrs. Barclay meanwhile surveyed the company. Mrs. Armadale sat at the end of the table; placid and pleasant as always, though to Mrs. Barclay her aspect had somewhat of the severe. She did not smile much, yet she looked kindly over her assembled children. Uncle Tim was her brother; Uncle Tim Hotchkiss. He had the so frequent New England mingling of the shrewd and the benevolent in his face; and he was a much more jolly personage than his sister; younger than she, too, and still vigorous. Unlike her, also, he was a handsome man; had been very handsome in his young days; and, as Mrs. Barclay's eye roved over the table, she thought few could show a better assemblage of comeliness than was gathered round this one. Madge was strikingly handsome in her well-fitting black dress; Lois made a very plain brown stuff seem resplendent; she had a little fleecy white woollen shawl wound about her shoulders, and Mrs. Barclay could hardly keep her eyes away from the girl. And if the other members of the party were less beautiful in feature, they had every one of them in a high degree the stamp of intellect and of character. Mrs. Barclay speculated upon the strange society in which she found herself; upon the odd significance of her being there; and on the possible outcome, weighty and incalculable, of the connection of the two things. So intently that she almost forgot what she was eating, and she started at Mrs. Marx's sudden question—"Well, how do you like it? Charity, give Mrs. Barclay some pickles—what she likes; there's sweet pickle, that's peaches; and sharp pickle, that's red cabbage; and I don' know which of 'em she likes best; and give her some apple—have you got any apple sauce, Mrs. Barclay?"
"Thank you, everything; and everything is delicious."
"That's how things are gen'ally, in Mrs. Marx's hands," remarked uncleTim. "There ain't her beat for sweets and sours in all the country."
"Mrs. Barclay's accustomed to another sort o' doings," said their hostess. "I didn't know but she mightn't like our ways."
"I like them very much, I assure you."
"There ain't no better ways than Shampuashuh ways," said uncle Tim. "If there be, I'd like to see 'em once. Lois, you never see a handsomer dinner'n this in New York, did you? Come now, and tell.Didyou?"
"I never saw a dinner where things were better of their kind, uncleTim."
Mrs. Barclay smiled to herself. That will do, she thought.
"Is that an answer?" said uncle Tim. "I'll be shot if I know."
"It is as good an answer as I can give," returned Lois, smiling.
"Of course she has seen handsomer!" said Mrs. Marx. "If you talk of elegance, we don't pretend to it in Shampuashuh. Be thankful if what you have got is good, uncle Tim; and leave the rest."
"Well, I don't understand," responded uncle Tim. "Why shouldn't Shampuashuh be elegant, I don't see? Ain't this elegant enough for anybody?"
"'Tain't elegant at all," said Mrs. Marx. "If this was in one o' the elegant places, there'd be a bunch o' flowers in the pig's mouth, and a ring on his tail."
At the face which uncle Tim made at this, Lois's gravity gave way; and a perfect echo of laughter went round the table.
"Well, I don' know what you're all laughin' at nor what you mean," said the object of their merriment; "but I should uncommonly like to know."
"Tell him, Lois," cried Madge, "what a dinner in New York is like. You never did tell him."
"Well, I'm ready to hear," said the old gentleman. "I thought a dinner was a dinner; but I'm willin' to learn."
"Tell him, Lois!" Madge repeated.
"It would be very stupid for Mrs. Barclay," Lois objected.
"On the contrary!" said that lady. "I should very much like to hear your description. It is interesting to hear what is familiar to us described by one to whom it is novel. Go on, Lois."
"I'll tell you of one dinner, uncle Tim," said Lois, after a moment of consideration. "Alldinners in New York, you must understand, are not like this; this was a grand dinner."
"Christmas eve?" suggested uncle Tim.
"No. I was not there at Christmas; this was just a party. There were twelve at table.
"In the first place, there was an oval plate of looking-glass, as long as this table—not quite so broad—that took up the whole centre of the table." Here Lois was interrupted.
"Looking-glass!" cried uncle Tim.
"Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" said Charity.
"Looking-glass to set the hot dishes on?" said Mrs. Marx, to whom this story seemed new.
"No; not to set anything on. It took up the whole centre of the table. Round the edge of this looking-glass, all round, was a border or little fence of solid silver, about six or eight inches high; of beautiful wrought open-work; and just within this silver fence, at intervals, stood most exquisite little white marble statues, about a foot and a half high. There must have been a dozen of them; and anything more beautiful than the whole thing was, you cannot imagine."
"I should think they'd have been awfully in the way," remarked Charity.
"Not at all; there was room enough all round outside for the plates and glasses."
"The looking-glass, I suppose, was for the pretty ladies to see themselves in!"
"Quite mistaken, uncle Tim; one could not see the reflection of oneself; only bits of one's opposite neighbours; little flashes of colour here and there; and the reflection of the statuettes on the further side; it was prettier than ever you can think."
"I reckon it must ha' been; but I don't see the use of it," said uncleTim.
"That wasn't all," Lois went on. "Everybody had his own salt-cellar."
"Table must ha' been full, I should say."
"No, it was not full at all; there was plenty of room for everything, and that allowed every pretty thing to be seen. And those salt-cellars were a study. They were delicious little silver figures—every one different from the others—and each little figure presented the salt in something. Mine was a little girl, with her apron all gathered up, as if to hold nuts or apples, and the salt was in her apron. The one next to her was a market-woman with a flat basket on her head, and the salt was in the basket. Another was a man bowing, with his hat in his hand; the salt was in the hat. I could not see them all, but each one seemed prettier than the other. One was a man standing by a well, with a bucket drawn up, but full of salt, not water. A very pretty one was a milkman with a pail."
Uncle Tim was now reduced to silence, but Charity remarked that she could not understand where the dishes were—the dinner.
"It was somewhere else. It was not on the table at all. The waiters brought the things round. There were six waiters, handsomely dressed in black, and with white silk gloves."
"White silk gloves!" echoed Charity. "Well, Idothink the way some people live is just a sin and a shame!"
"How did you know what there was for dinner?" inquired Mrs. Marx now. "I shouldn't like to make my dinner of boiled beef, if there was partridges comin'. And when there's plum-puddin' I always like to know it beforehand."
"We knew everything beforehand, aunt Anne. There were beautifully painted little pieces of white silk on everybody's plate, with all the dishes named; only many, most of them, were French names, and I was none the wiser for them."
"Can't they call good victuals by English names?" asked uncle Tim."What's the sense o' that? How was anybody to know what he was eatin'?"
"O they all knew," said Lois. "Except me."
"I'll bet you were the only sensible one o' the lot," said the old gentleman.
"Then at every plate there was a beautiful cut glass bottle, something like a decanter, with ice water, and over the mouth of it a tumbler to match. Besides that, there were at each plate five or six other goblets or glasses, of different colours."
"What colours?" demanded Charity.
"Yellow, and dark red, and green, and white."
"What weretheyall for?" asked uncle Tim.
"Wine; different sorts of wine."
"Different sorts o' wine! How many sorts did they have, at one dinner?"
"I cannot tell you. I do not know. A great many."
"Did you drink any, Lois?"
"No, aunt Anne."
"I suppose they thought you were a real country girl, because you didn't?"
"Nobody thought anything about it. The servants brought the wine; everybody did just as he pleased about taking it."
"What did you have to eat, Lois, with so much to drink?" asked her elder sister.
"More than I can tell, Charity. There must have been a dozen large dishes, at each end of the table, besides the soup and the fish; and no end of smaller dishes."
"For a dozen people!" cried Charity.
"I suppose it's because I don't know anythin'," said Mr. Hotchkiss,—"but I alwaysduhate to see a whole lot o' things before me more'n I can eat!"
"It's downright wicked waste, that's what I call it," said Mrs. Marx; "but I s'pose that's because I don't know anythin'."
"And you like that sort o' way better 'n this 'n?" inquired uncle Tim of Lois.
"I said no more than that it was prettier, uncle Tim."
"Butduye?"
Lois's eye met involuntarily Mrs. Barclay's for an instant, and she smiled.
"Uncle Tim, I think there is something to be said on both sides."
"There ain't no sense on that side."
"There is some prettiness; and I like prettiness."
"Prettiness won't butter nobody's bread. Mother, you've let Lois go once too often among those city folks. She's nigh about sp'iled for a Shampuashuh man now."
"Perhaps a Shampuashuh man will not get her," said Mrs. Barclay mischievously.
"Who else is to get her?" cried Mrs. Marx. "We're all o' one sort here; and there's hardly a man but what's respectable, and very few that ain't more or less well-to-do; but we all work and mean to work, and we mostly all know our own mind. I do despise a man who don't do nothin', and who asks other folks what he's to think!"
"That sort of person is not held in very high esteem in any society, I believe," said Mrs. Barclay courteously; though she was much amused, and was willing for her own reasons that the talk should go a little further. Therefore she spoke.
"Well, idleness breeds 'em," said the other lady.
"But who respects them?"
"The world'll respect anybody, even a man that goes with his hands in his pockets, if he only can fetch 'em out full o' money. There was such a feller hangin' round Appledore last summer. My! didn't he try my patience!"
"Appledore?" said Lois, pricking up her ears.
"Yes; there was a lot of 'em."
"People who did not know their own minds?" Mrs. Barclay asked, purposely and curiously.
"Well, no, I won't say that of all of 'em. There was some of 'em knew their own minds a'mosttoowell; but he warn't one. He come to me once to help him out; and I filled his pipe for him, and sent him to smoke it."
"Aunt Anne!" said Lois, drawing up her pretty figure with a most unwonted assumption of astonished dignity. Both the dignity and the astonishment drew all eyes upon her. She was looking at Mrs. Marx with eyes full of startled displeasure. Mrs. Marx was entrenched behind a whole army of coffee and tea pots and pitchers, and answered coolly.
"Yes, I did. What is it to you? Did he come toyoufor help too?"
"I do not know whom you are talking of."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Marx. "I thought youdid. Before I'd have you marry such a soft feller as that, I'd—I'd shoot him!"
There was some laughter, but Lois did not join in it, and with heightened colour was attending very busily to her supper.
"Was the poor man looking that way?" asked Mrs. Barclay.
"He was lookin' two ways," said Mrs. Marx; "and when a man's doin' that, he don't fetch up nowhere, you bet. I'd like to know what becomes of him! They were all of the sort Lois has been tellin' of; thought a deal o' 'prettiness.' I do think, the way some people live, is a way to shame the flies; and I don't know nothin' in creation more useless than they be!"
Mrs. Marx could speak better English, but the truth was, when she got much excited she forgot her grammar.
"But at a watering-place," remarked Mrs. Barclay, "you do not expect people to show their useful side. They are out for play and amusement."
"I can play too," said the hostess; "but my play always has some meaning to it. Did I tell you, mother, what that lady was doing?"
"I thought you were speaking of a gentleman," said quiet Mrs. Armadale.
"Well, there was a lady too; and she was doin' a piece o' work. It was a beautiful piece of grey satin; thick and handsome as you ever see; and she was sewin' gold thread upon it with fine gold-coloured silk; fine gold thread; and it went one way straight and another way round, curling and crinkling, like nothin' on earth but a spider's web; all over the grey satin. I watched her a while, and then, says I, 'What are you doin', if you please? I've been lookin' at you, and I can't make out.' 'No,' says she, 'I s'pose not. It's a cover for a bellows.' 'For awhat?' says I. 'For a bellows,' says she; 'abellows, to blow the fire with. Don't you know what they are?' 'Yes,' says I; 'I've seen a fire bellows before now; but in our part o' the country we don't cover 'em with satin.' 'No,' says she, 'I suppose not.' 'I would just like to ask one more question,' says I. 'Well, you may,' says she; 'what is it?' 'I would just like to know,' says I, 'what the fire is made of that you blow with a satin and gold bellows?' And she laughed a little. ' 'Cause,' says I, 'it ought to be somethin' that won't soil a kid glove and that won't give out no sparks nor smoke.' 'O,' says she, 'nobody really blows the fire; only the bellows have come into fashion, along with thefire-dogs, wherever people have an open fireplace and a wood fire.' Well, what she meant by fire dogs I couldn't guess; but I thought I wouldn't expose any more o' my ignorance. Now, mother, how would you like to have Lois in a house like that?—where people don't know any better what to do with their immortal lives than to make satin covers for bellows they don't want to blow the fire with! and dish up dinner enough for twelve people, to feed a hundred?"
"Lois will never be in a house like that," responded the old lady contentedly.
"Then it's just as well if you keep her away from the places where they make so much ofprettiness, I can tell you. Lois is human."
"Lois is Christian," said Mrs. Armadale; "and she knows her duty."
"Well, it's heart-breakin' work, to know one's duty, sometimes," saidMrs. Marx.
"But you do not think, I hope, that one is a pattern for all?" said Mrs. Barclay. "There are exceptions; it is not everybody in the great world that lives to no purpose."
"If that's what you call the great world,Icall it mighty small, then. If I didn't know anything better to do with myself than to work sprangles o' gold on a satin cover that warn't to cover nothin', I'd go down to Fairhaven and hire myself out to open oysters! and think I made by the bargain. Anyhow, I'd respect myself better."
"I don't know what you mean by the great world," said uncle Tim. "Be there two on 'em—a big and a little?"
"Don't you see, all Shampuashuh would go in one o' those houses Lois was tellin' about! and if it got there, I expect they wouldn't give it house-room."
"The worlds are not so different as you think," Mrs. Barclay went on courteously. "Human nature is the same everywhere."
"Well, I guess likely," responded Mrs. Marx. "Mother, if you've done, we'll go into the other."
The next day was Christmas; but in the country of Shampuashuh, Christmas, though a holiday, was not held in so high regard as it receives in many other quarters of the earth. There was no service in the church; and after dinner Lois came as usual to draw in Mrs. Barclay's room.
"I did not understand some of your aunt's talk last evening," Mrs.Barclay remarked after a while.
"I am not surprised at that," said Lois.
"Did you?"
"O yes. I understand aunt Anne."
"Does she really think thatallthe people who like pretty things, lead useless lives?"
"She does not care so much about pretty things as I do," said Lois slightly.
"But does she think all who belong to the 'great world' are evil? given up to wickedness?"
"Not so bad as that," Lois answered, smiling; "but naturally aunt Anne does not understand any world but this of Shampuashuh."
"I understood her to assume that under no circumstances could you marry one of the great world she was talking of?"
"Well," said Lois, "I suppose she thinks that one of them would not be a Christian."
"You mean, an enthusiast."
"No," said Lois; "but I mean, and she means, one who is in heart a true servant of Christ. He might, or he might not, be enthusiastic."
"And would you marry no one who was not a Christian, as you understand the word?"
"The Bible forbids it," said Lois, her colour rising a little.
"The Bible forbids it? I have not studied the Bible like you; but I have heard it read from the pulpit all my life; and I never heard, either from the pulpit or out of it, such an idea, as that one who is a Christian may not marry one who is not."
"I can show you the command—in more places than one," said Lois.
"I wish you would."
Lois left her drawing and fetched a Bible.
"It is forbidden in the Old Testament and in the New," she said; "but I will show you a place in the New. Here it is—in the second Epistle to the Corinthians—'Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers;' and it goes on to give the reason."
"Unbelievers! But those, in that day, were heathen."
"Yes," said Lois simply, going on with her drawing.
"There are no heathen now,—not here."
"I suppose that makes no difference. It is the party which will not obey and serve Christ; and which is working against him. In that day they worshipped idols of wood and stone; now they worship a different sort. They do not worshiphim;and there are but two parties."
"No neutrals?"
"No. The Bible says not."
"But what is being 'yoked together'? what do you understand is forbidden by that? Marriage?"
"Any connection, I suppose," said Lois, looking up, "in which two people are forced to pull together. You know what a 'yoke' is?"
"And you can smile at that, you wicked girl?"
Lois laughed now. "Why not?" she said. "I have not much fancy for putting my head in a yoke at all; but a yoke where the two pull different ways must be very miserable!"
"You forget; you might draw somebody else to go the right way."
"That would depend upon who was the strongest."
"True," said Mrs. Barclay. "But, my dear Lois! you do not suppose that a man cannot belong to the world and yet be what you call a Christian? That would be very uncharitable."
"I do not want to be uncharitable," said Lois. "Mrs. Barclay, it isextremelydifficult to mark the foliage of different sorts of trees!"
"Yes, but you are making a very good beginning. Lois, do you know, you are fitting to be the wife of just one of that world you are condemning-cultivated, polished, full of accomplishments and graces, and fine and refined tastes."
"Then he would be very dangerous," said Lois, "if he were not aChristian. He might have all that, and yet be a Christian too."
"Suppose he were not; would you refuse him?"
"I hope I should," said Lois. But her questioner noticed that this answer was soberly given.
That evening she wrote a letter to Mr. Dillwyn.
"I am enjoying the most delightful rest," the letter said, "that I have known for a very long time; yet I have a doubt whether I ought to confess it; whether I ought not to declare myself tired of Shampuashuh, and throw up my cards. I feel a little like an honest swindler, using your money, not on false pretences, but on a foregone case. I shouldneverget tired of the place or the people. Everyone of them, indeed almost every one that I see, is a character; and here, where there is less varnish, the grain of the wood shows more plainly. I have had a most original carpenter here to measure for my book-shelves, only yesterday; for my room is running over with books. Not only everybody is a character, but nearly everybody has a good mixture of what is admirable in his composition; and as for these two girls—well, I am even more in love than you are, Philip. The elder is the handsomer, perhaps; she is very handsome; but your favourite is my favourite. Lois is lovely. There is a strange, fresh, simple, undefinable charm about the girl that makes one her captive. Even me, a woman. She wins upon me daily with her sweet unconscious ways. But nevertheless I am uneasy when I remember what I am here for, and what you are expecting. I fear I am acting the part of an innocent swindler, as I said; little better.
"In one way there is no disappointment to be looked for. These girls are both gifted with a great capacity and aptitude for mental growth. Lois especially, for she cares more to go into the depths of things; but both of them grow fast, and I can see the change almost from day to day. Tastes are waking up, and eager for gratification; there is no limit to the intellectual hunger or the power of assimilation; the winter is one of very great enjoyment to them (as to me!), and there is, and that has been from the first, a refinement of manner which surprised me, but that too is growing. And yet, with all this, which promises so much, there is another element which threatens discomfiture to our hopes. I must not conceal it from you. These people are regular Puritans. They think now, in this age of the world, to regulate their behaviour entirely by the Bible. You are of a different type; and I am persuaded that the whole family would regard an alliance with a man like you as an unlawful thing; ay, though he were a prince or a Rothschild, it would make no difference in their view of the thing. For here is independence, pure and absolute. The family is very poor; they are glad of the money I pay them; but they would not bend their heads before the prestige of wealth, or do what they think wrong to gain any human favour or any earthly advantage. And Lois is like the rest; quite as firm; in fact, some of these gentlewomen have a power of saying 'no' which is only a little less than fearful. I cannot tell what love would do; but I do not believe it would break down her principle. We had a talk lately on this very subject; she was very firm.
"I think I ought not to conceal from you that I have doubts on another question. We were at a family supper party last night at an aunt's house. She is a character too; a kind of a grenadier of a woman, in nature, not looks. The house and the entertainment were very interesting to me; the mingling of things was very striking, that one does not expect to find in connection. For instance, the appointments of the table were, as of course they would be, of no pretension to style or elegance; clumsily comfortable, was all you could say. And the cooking was delicately fine. Then, manners and language were somewhat lacking in polish, to put it mildly; and the tone of thought and the qualities of mind and character exhibited were very far above what I have heard often in circles of great pretension. Once the conversation got upon the contrasting ways of life in this society and in what is called the world; the latter, I confess to you, met with some hard treatment; and the idea was rejected with scorn that one of the girls should ever be tempted out of her own sphere into the other. All this is of no consequence; but what struck me was a hint or two that Loishad beentempted; and a pretty plain assertion that this aunt, who it seems was at Appledore last summer nursing Mrs. Wishart, had received some sort of overture or advance on Lois's behalf, and had rejected it. This was evidently news to Lois; and she showed so much startled displeasure—in her face, for she said almost nothing—that the suspicion was forced upon me, there might have been more in the matter than the aunt knew. Who was at Appledore? a friend of yours, was it not? and are yousurehe did not gain some sort of lien upon this heart which you are so keen to win? I owe it to you to set you upon this inquiry; for if I know anything of the girl, she is as true and as unbending as steel. What she holds she will hold; what she loves she will love, I believe, to the end. So, before we go any further, let us find whether we have ground to go on. No, I would not have you come here at present. Not in any case; and certainly not in this uncertain'ty. You are too wise to wish it."
Whether Philip were too wise to wish it, he was too wise to give the rein to his wishes. He stayed in New York all winter, contenting himself with sending to Shampuashuh every imaginable thing that could make Mrs. Barclay's life there pleasant, or help her to make it useful to her two young friends. A fine Chickering piano arrived between Christmas and New Year's day, and was set up in the space left for it between the bookshelves. Books continued to flow in; books of all sorts—science and art, history and biography, poetry and general literature. And Lois would have developed into a bookworm, had not the piano exercised an almost equal charm upon her. Listening to Mrs. Barclay's music at first was an absorbing pleasure; then Mrs. Barclay asked casually one day "Shall I teach you?"
"O, you could not!" was Lois's answer, given with a breath and a flush of excitement.
"Let us try," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling. "You might learn at least enough to accompany yourself. I have never heard your voice. Have you a voice?"
"I do not know what you would call a voice," said Lois, smiling.
"But you sing?"
"Hymns. Nothing else."
"Have you a hymn-book? with music, I mean?"
Lois brought one. Mrs. Barclay played the accompaniment of a familiar hymn, and Lois sang.
"My dear," exclaimed the former when she had done, "that is delicious!"
"Is it?"
"Your voice is very fine; it has a peculiar and uncommon richness. You must let me train that voice."
"I should like to sing hymns as well as Ican," Lois answered, flushing somewhat.
"You would like to sing other things, too."
"Songs?"
"Yes. Some songs are beautiful."
"I never liked much those I have heard."
"Why not?"
"They seemed rather foolish."
"Did they! The choice must have been unfortunate. Where did you hear them?"
"In New York. In company there. The voices were sometimes delightful; but the words—"
"Well, the words?"
"I wondered how they could like to sing them. There was nothing in them but nonsense."
"You are a very severe critic!"
"No," said Lois deprecatingly; "but I think hymns are so much better."
"Well, we will see. Songs are not the first thing; your voice must be trained."
So a new element came into the busy life of that winter; and music now made demands on time and attention which Lois found it a little difficult to meet, without abridging the long reading hours and diligent studies to which she had hitherto been giving all her spare time. But the piano was so alluring! And every morsel of real music that Mrs. Barclay touched was so entrancing to Lois. To Lois; Madge did not care about it, except for the wonder of seeing Mrs. Barclay's fingers fly over the keys; and Charity took quite a different view again.
"Mother," she said one evening to the old lady, whom they often called so, "don't it seem to you that Lois is gettin' turned round?"
"How, my dear?"
"Well, it ain't like the Lois we used to have. She's rushin' at books from morning to night, or scritch-scratching on a slate; and the rest o' the time she's like nothin' but the girl in the song, that had 'bells on her fingers and rings on her toes.' I hear that piano-forty going at all hours; it's tinkle, tinkle, every other thing. What's the good of all that?"
"What's theharm?" said Lois.
"What's she doin' it for, that woman? One 'ud think she had come here just on purpose to teach Madge and you; for she don't do anything else. What's it all for? that's what I'd like to be told."
"I'm sure she's very kind," said Madge.
"Mother, do you like it?"
"What is the harm in what we are doing, Charity?" asked her younger sister.
"If a thing ain't good it's always harm!"
"But these things are good."
"Maybe good for some folks; they ain't good for you."
"I wish you would say 'are not,'" said Lois.
"There!" said Charity. "There it is! You're pilin' one thing on top of another, till your head won't stand it; and the house won't be high enough for you by and by. All these ridiculous ways, of people that think themselves too nice for common things! and you've lived all your life among common things, and are going to live all your life among them. And, mother, all this French and music will just make Lois discontented. You see if it don't."
"Do I act discontented?" Lois asked, with a pleasant smile.
"Does she leave any of her work for you to do, Charity?" said Madge.
"Wait till the spring opens and garden must be made," said Charity.
"I should never think of leavingthatto you to do, Charity," saidLois, laughing. "We should have a poor chance of a garden."
"Mother, I wish you'd stop it."
Mrs. Armadale said, however, nothing at the time. But the next chance she had when she and her youngest granddaughter were alone, she said,
"Lois, are you in danger of lettin' your pleasure make you forget your duty?"
"I hope not, grandmother. I do not think it. I take these things to be duty. I think one ought always to learn anything one has an opportunity of learning."
"One thing is needful," said the old lady doubtfully.
"Yes, grandmother. I do not forget that."
"You don't want to learn the ways of the world, Lois?"
"No, grandmother."
Mr. Dillwyn, as I said, did not come near Shampuashuh. He took his indemnification in sending all sorts of pleasant things. Papers and magazines overflowed, flowed over into Mrs. Marx's hands, and made her life rich; flowed over again into Mr. Hotchkiss's hands, and embroidered his life for him. Mr. Dillwyn sent fruit; foreign fruit, strange and delicious, which it was a sort of education even to eat, bringing one nearer to the countries so far and unknown, where it grew. He sent music; and if some of it passed under Lois's ban as "nonsense," that was not the case with the greater part. "She has a marvellous true appreciation of what is fine," Mrs. Barclay wrote; "and she rejects with an accuracy which surprises me, all that is merely pretty and flashy. There are some bits of Handel that have great power over the girl; she listens to them, I might almost say, devoutly, and is never weary. Madge is delighted with Rossini; but Lois gives her adherence to the German classics, and when I play Haydn or Mozart or Mendelssohn, stands rapt in her delighted listening, and looking like—well, I will not tantalize you by trying to describe to you what I see every day. I marvel only where the girl got these tastes and susceptibilities; it must be blood; I believe in inheritance. She has had until now no training or experience; but your bird is growing her wings fast now, Philip. If you can manage to cage her! Natures hereabout are not tame, by any means."
Mr. Dillwyn, I believe I mentioned, sent engravings and exquisite photographs; and these almost rivalled Haydn and Mozart in Lois's mind. For various reasons, Mrs. Barclay sought to make at least this source of pleasure common to the whole family; and would often invite them all into her room, or carry her portfolio out into their general sitting-room, and display to the eyes of them all the views of foreign lands; cities, castles and ruins, palaces and temples, Swiss mountains and Scotch lochs, Paris Boulevards and Venetian canals, together with remains of ancient art and works of modern artists; of all which Philip sent an unbounded number and variety. These evenings were unendingly curious to Mrs. Barclay. Comment was free, and undoubtedly original, whatever else might be said of it; and character, and the habit of life of her audience, were unconsciously revealed to her. Intense curiosity and eagerness for information were observable in them all; but tastes, and the power of apprehension and receptiveness towards new and strange ideas, and the judgment passed upon things, were very different in the different members of the group. These exhibitions had further one good effect, not unintended by the exhibitor; they brought the whole family somewhat in tone with the new life to which two of its members were rising. It was not desirable that Lois should be too far in advance of her people, or rather that they should be too far behind her. The questions propounded to Mrs. Barclay on these occasions, and the elucidations she found it desirable to give without questions, transformed her part into that of a lecturer; and the end of such an evening would find her tired with her exertions, yet well repaid for them. The old grandmother manifested great curiosity, great admiration, with frequently an expression of doubt or disapproval; and very often a strange, slight, inexpressible air of one who felt herself to belong to a different world, to which all these things were more or less foreign. Charity showed also intense eagerness and curiosity, and inquisitiveness; and mingled with those, a very perceptible flavour of incredulity or of disdain, the latter possibly born of envy. But Lois and Madge were growing with every journey to distant lands, and every new introduction to the great works of men's hands, of every kind and of every age.
After receiving that letter of Mrs. Barclay's mentioned in the last chapter, Philip Dillwyn would immediately have attacked Tom Caruthers again on the question of his liking for Miss Lothrop, to find out whether possibly there were any the least foundation for Mrs. Barclay's scruples and fears. But it was no longer in his power. The Caruthers family had altered their plans; and instead of going abroad in the spring, had taken their departure with the first of December, after an impromptu wedding of Julia to her betrothed. Mr. Dillwyn did not seriously believe that there was anything his plan had to fear from this side; nevertheless he preferred not to move in the dark; and he waited. Besides, he must allow time for the work he had sent Mrs. Barclay to do; to hurry matters would be to spoil everything; and it was much better on every ground that he should keep away from Shampuashuh. As I said, he busied himself with Shampuashuh affairs all he could, and wore out the winter as he best might; which was not very satisfactorily. And when spring came he resolutely carried out his purpose, and sailed for Europe. Till at least a year had gone by he would not try to see Lois; Mrs. Barclay should have a year at least to push her beneficent influence and bring her educational efforts to some visible result; he would keep away; but it would be much easier to keep away if the ocean lay between them, and he went to Florence and northern Italy and the Adriatic.
Meanwhile the winter had "flown on soft wings" at Shampuashuh. Every day seemed to be growing fuller and richer than its predecessors; every day Lois and Madge were more eager in the search after knowledge, and more ready for the reception of it. A change was going on in them, so swift that Mrs. Barclay could almost see it from day to day. Whether others saw it I cannot tell; but Mrs. Marx shook her head in the fear of it, and Charity opined that the family "might whistle for a garden, and for butter and cheese next summer." Precious opportunity of winter days, when no gardening nor dairy work was possible! and blessed long nights and mornings, after sunset and before sunrise, when no housework of any sort put in claims upon the leisure of the two girls. There were no interruptions from without. In Shampuashuh, society could not be said to flourish. Beyond an occasional "sewing society" meeting, and a much more rare gathering for purely social purposes, nothing more than a stray caller now and then broke the rich quiet of those winter days; the time for a tillage, and a sowing, and a growth far beyond in preciousness all "the precious things put forth by the sun" in the more genial time of the year. But days began to become longer, nevertheless, as the weeks went on; and daylight was pushing those happy mornings and evenings into lesser and lesser compass; and snow quite disappeared from the fields, and buds began to swell on the trees and take colour, and airs grew more gentle in temperature; though I am bound to say there is a sharpness sometimes in the nature of a Shampuashuh spring, that quite outdoes all the greater rigours of the winter that has gone.
"The frost is out of the ground!" said Lois one day to her friend.
"Well," said Mrs. Barclay innocently; "I suppose that is a good thing."
Lois went on with her drawing, and made no answer.
But soon Mrs. Barclay began to perceive that less reading and studying were done; or else some drawing lingered on its way towards completion; and the deficits became more and more striking. At last she demanded the reason.
"O," said Madge, "the cows have come in, and I have a good deal to do in the dairy now; it takes up all my mornings. I'm so sorry, I don't know what to do! but the milk must be seen to, and the butter churned, and then worked over; and it takes time, Mrs. Barclay."
"And Lois?"
"O, Lois is making garden."
"Making garden!"
"Yes; O, she always does it. It's her particular part of the business. We all do a little of everything; but the garden is Lois's special province, and the dairy mine, and Charity takes the cooking and the sewing. O, we all do our own sewing, and we all do grandmother's sewing; only Charity takes head in that department."
"What does Lois do in the garden?"
"O, everything. We get somebody to plough it up in the fall; and in the spring we have it dug over; but all the rest she does. We have a good garden too," said Madge, smiling.
"And these things take your morning and her morning?"
"Yes, indeed; I should think they did. Rather!"
Mrs. Barclay held her peace then, and for some time afterwards. The spring came on, the days became soft and lovely, after March had blown itself out; the trees began to put forth leaves, the blue-birds were darting about, like skyey messengers; robins were whistling, and daffodils were bursting, and grass was green. One lovely warm morning, when everything without seemed beckoning to her, Mrs. Barclay threw on a shawl and hat, and made her way out to the old garden, which up to this day she had never entered.
She found the great wide enclosure looking empty and bare enough. The two or three old apple trees hung protectingly over the wooden bench in the middle, their branches making pretty tracery against the tender, clear blue of the sky; but no shade was there. The branches only showed a little token of swelling and bursting buds, which indeed softened in a lovely manner the lines of their interlacing network, and promised a plenty of green shadow by and by. No shadow was needed at present, for the sun was too gentle; its warmth was welcome, and beneficent, and kindly. The old cherry tree in the corner was beginning to open its wealth of white blossoms; everywhere else the bareness and brownness of winter was still reigning, only excepting the patches of green turf around the boles and under the spreading boughs of the trees here and there. The garden was no garden, only a spread of soft, up-turned brown loam. It looked a desolate place to Mrs. Barclay.
In the midst of it, the one point of life and movement was Lois. She was in a coarse, stout stuff dress, short, and tucked up besides, to keep it out of the dirt. Her hands were covered with coarse, thick gloves, her head with a little old straw hat. At the moment Mrs. Barclay came up, she was raking a patch of ground which she had carefully marked out, and bounded with a trampled footway; she was bringing it with her rake into a condition of beautiful level smoothness, handling her tool with light dexterity. As Mrs. Barclay came near, she looked up with a flash of surprise and a smile.
"I have found you," said the lady. "So this is what you are about!"
"It is what I am always about at this time of year."
"What are you doing?"
"Just here I am going to put in radishes and lettuce."
"Radishes and lettuce! And that is instead of French and philosophy!"
"This is philosophy," said Lois, while with a neat movement of her rake she threw off some stones which she had collected from the surface of the bed. "Very good philosophy. Surely the philosophy of life is first—to live."
Mrs. Barclay was silent a moment upon this.
"Are radishes and lettuce the first thing you plant in the spring, then?"
"O dear, no!" said Lois. "Do you see all that corner? that's in potatoes. Do you see those slightly marked lines—here, running across from the walk to the wall?—peas are there. They'll be up soon. I think I shall put in some corn to-morrow. Yonder is a bed of radishes and lettuce just out of the ground. We'll have some radishes for tea, before you know it."
"And do you mean to say thatyouhave been planting potatoes?you?"
"Yes," said Lois, looking at her and laughing. "I like to plant potatoes. In fact, I like to plant anything. What I do not always like so well, is the taking care of them after they are up and growing."
Mrs. Barclay sat down and watched her. Lois was now tracing delicate little drills across the breadth of her nicely-prepared bed; little drills all alike, just so deep and just so far apart. Then she went to a basket hard by for a little paper of seeds; two papers; and began deftly to scatter the seed along the drills, with delicate and careful but quick fingers. Mrs. Barclay watched her till she had filled all the rows, and began to cover the seeds in; that, too, she did quick and skilfully.
"That is not fit work for you to do, Lois."
"Why not?"
"You have something better to do."
"I do not see how I can. This is the work that is given me."
"But any common person could do that?"
"We have not got the common person to do it," said Lois, laughing; "so it comes upon an uncommon one."
"But there is a fitness in things."
"So you will think, when you get some of my young lettuce." The drills were fast covered in, but there were a good many of them, and Lois went on talking and working with equal spirit.
"I do not think I shall—" Mrs. Barclay answered the last statement.
"I like to do this, Mrs. Barclay. I like to do it very much. Iampulled a little two ways this spring—but that only shows this is good for me."
"How so?"
"When anybody is living to his own pleasure, I guess he is not in the best way of improvement."
"Is there no one but you to do all the weeding, by and by, when the garden will be full of plants?"
"Nobody else," said Lois.
"That must take a great deal of your time!"
"Yes," said Lois, "it does; that and the fruit-picking."
"Fruit-picking! Mercy! Why, child,mustyou do all that?"
"It is my part," said Lois pleasantly. "Charity and Madge have each their part. This is mine, and I like it better than theirs. But it is only so, Mrs. Barclay, that we are able to get along. A gardener would eat up our garden. I take only my share. And there is a great deal of pleasure in it. It is pleasant to provide for the family's wants, and to see the others enjoy what I bring in;—yes, and to enjoy it myself. And then, do you see how pleasant the work is! Don't you like it out here this morning?"
Mrs. Barclay cast a glance around her again. There was a slight spring haze in the air, which seemed to catch and hold the sun's rays and diffuse them in gentle beneficence. Through it the opening cherry blossoms gave their tender promise; the brown, bare apple trees were softened; an indescribable breath of hope and life was in the air, to which the birds were doing all they could to give expression; there was a delicate joy in Nature's face, as if at being released from the bands of Winter and having her hands free again. The smell of the upturned earth came fresh to Mrs. Barclay's nostrils, along with a salt savour from the not distant sea. Yes, it was pleasant, with a rare and wonderful pleasantness; and yet Mrs. Barclay's eyes came discontentedly back to Lois.
"It would be possible to enjoy all this, Lois, if you were not doing such evil work."
"Evil work! O no, Mrs. Barclay. The work that the Lord gives anybody to do cannot be evil. It must be the very best thing he can do. And I do not believe I should enjoy the spring—and the summer—and the autumn—near so well, if I were not doing it."
"Must one be a gardener, to have such enjoyment?"
"Imust," said Lois, laughing. "If I do not follow my work, my work follows me; and then it comes like a taskmaster, and carries a whip."
"But, Lois! that sort of work will make your hands rough."
Lois lifted one of her hands in its thick glove, and looked at it."Well," she said, "what then? What are hands made for?"
"You know very well what I mean. You know a time may come when you would like to have your hands white and delicate."
"The time is come now," said Lois, laughing. "I have not to wait for it. I like white hands, and delicate hands, as well as anybody. Mine must do their work, all the same. Something might be said for my feet, too, I suppose," she added, with another laugh.
At the moment she had finished outlining an other bed, and was now trampling a little hard border pathway round it, making the length of her foot the breadth of the pathway, and setting foot to foot close together, so bit by bit stamping it round. Mrs. Barclay looked on, and wished some body else could have looked on, at the bright, fresh face under the little old hat, and the free action and spirit and accuracy with which everything that either feet or hands did was done. Somehow she forgot the coarse dress, and only saw the delicate creature in it.
"Lois, I do not like it!" she began again. "Do you know, some people are very particular about these little things—fastidious about them. You may one day yet want to please one of those very men."
"Not unless he wants to please me first!" said Lois, with a glance from her path-treading.
"Of course. I am supposing that."
"I don't know him!" said Lois. "And I don't see him in the distance!"
"That proves nothing."
"And it wouldn't make any difference if I did."
"You are mistaken in thinking that. You do not know yet what it is to be in love, Lois."
"I don't know," said Lois. "Can't one be in love with one's grandmother?"
"But, Lois, this is going to take a great deal of your time."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you want all your time, to give to more important things. I can't bear to have you drop them all to plant potatoes. Could not somebody else be found to do it?"
"We could not afford the somebody, Mrs. Barclay."
It was not doubtfully or regretfully that the girl spoke; the brisk content of her answers drove Mrs. Barclay almost to despair.
"Lois, you owe something to yourself."
"What, Mrs. Barclay?"
"You owe it to yourself to be prepared for what I am sure is coming to you. You are not made to live in Shampuashuh all your life. Somebody will want you to quit it and go out into the wide world with him."
Lois was silent a few minutes, with her colour a little heightened, fresh as it had been already; then, having tramped all round her new bed, she came up to where Mrs. Barclay and her basket of seeds were.
"I don't believe it at all," she said. "I think I shall live and die here."
"Do you feel satisfied with that prospect?"
Lois turned over the bags of seeds in her basket, a little hurriedly; then she stopped and looked up at her questioner.
"I have nothing to do with all that," she said. "I do not want to think of it. I have enough in hand to think of. And I am satisfied, Mrs. Barclay, with whatever God gives me." She turned to her basket of seeds again, searching for a particular paper.
"I never heard any one say that before," remarked the other lady.
"As long as I can say it, don't you see that is enough?" said Lois lightly. "I enjoy all this work, besides; and so will you by and by when you get the lettuce and radishes, and some of my Tom Thumb peas. And I am not going to stop my studies either."
She went back to the new bed now, where she presently was very busy putting more seeds in. Mrs. Barclay watched her a while. Then, seeing a small smile break on the lips of the gardener, she asked Lois what she was thinking of? Lois looked up.
"I was thinking of that geode you showed us last night."
"That geode!"
"Yes, it is so lovely. I have thought of it a great many times. I am wanting very much to learn about stones now. I thought alwaystillnow that stones were only stones. The whole world is changed to me since you have come, Mrs. Barclay."
Yes, thought that lady to herself, and what will be the end of it?
"To tell the truth," Lois went on, "the garden work comes harder to me this spring than ever it did before; but that shows it is good for me. I have been having too much pleasure all winter."
"Can one have too much pleasure?" said Mrs. Barclay discontentedly.
"If it makes one unready for duty," said Lois.