"I think so myself," Lois returned quietly.

"And I am."

"I think you are, Madge. But that makes no difference. My dear, we are n.o.body."

"How?"--impatiently. "Isn't our family as respectable as anybody's?

Haven't we had governors and governors, of Ma.s.sachusetts and Connecticut both; and judges and ministers, ever so many, among our ancestors? And didn't a half-dozen of 'em, or more, come over in the 'Mayflower'?"

"Yes, Madge; all true; and I am as glad of it as you are."

"Then you talk nonsense!"

"No, I don't," said Lois, sighing a little. "I have seen a little more of the world than you have, you know, dear Madge; not very much, but a little more than you; and I know what I am talking about. We are unknown, we are not rich, we have none of what they call 'connections.'

So you see I do not want you to like too much a person who, beyond civility, and kindness perhaps, would never think of liking you."

"I don't want him to, that's one thing," said Madge. "But if all that is true, he is meaner than I think him; that's what I've got to say.

And it is a mean state of society where all that can be true."

"I suppose it is human nature," said Lois.

"It's awfully mean human nature!"

"I guess there is not much true n.o.bleness but where the religion of Christ comes in. If you have got that, Madge, be content and thankful."

"But n.o.body likes to be unjustly depreciated."

"Isn't that pride?"

"One must have some pride. I can't make religion _everything_, Lois. I was a woman before I was a Christian."

"If you want to be a happy woman, you will let religion be everything."

"But, Lois!--wouldn't _you_ like to be rich, and have pretty things about you?"

"Don't ask me," said Lois, smiling. "I am a woman too, and dearly fond of pretty things. But, Madge, there is something else I love better,"

she added, with a sudden sweet gravity; "and that is, the will of my G.o.d. I would rather have what he chooses to give me. Really and truly; I would _rather_ have that."

The conversation therewith was at an end. In the evening of that same day Lois left her seclusion and came down-stairs for the first time.

She was languid enough yet to be obliged to move slowly, and her cheeks had not got back their full colour, and were thinner than they used to be; otherwise she looked well, and Mrs. Wishart contemplated her with great satisfaction. Somewhat to Lois's vexation, or she thought so, they found Mr. DilIwyn down-stairs also. Lois had the invalid's place of honour, in a corner of the sofa, with a little table drawn up for her separate tea; and Madge and Mr. Dillwyn made toast for her at the fire. The fire gave its warm light, the lamps glittered with a more brilliant illumination; ruddy hues of tapestry and white gleams from silver and gla.s.s filled the room, with lights and shadows everywhere, that contented the eye and the imagination too, with suggestions of luxury and plenty and sheltered comfort. Lois felt the shelter and the comfort and the pleasure, with that enhanced intensity which belongs to one's sensations in a state of convalescence, and in her case was heightened by previous experiences. Nestled among cushions in her corner, she watched everything and took the effect of every detail; tasted every flavour of the situation; but all with a thoughtful, wordless gravity; she hardly spoke at all.

After tea, Mr. Dillwyn and Madge sat down to the chess-board. And then Lois's attention fastened upon them. Madge had drawn the little table that held the chessmen into very close proximity to the sofa, so that she was just at Lois's hand; but then her whole mind was bent upon the game, and Lois could study her as she pleased. She did study Madge. She admired her sister's great beauty; the glossy black hair, the delicate skin, the excellent features, the pretty figure. Madge was very handsome, there was no doubt; Mr. Dillwyn would not have far to look, Lois thought, to find one handsomer than herself was. There was a frank, fine expression of face, too; and manners thoroughly good. They lacked some of the quietness of long usage, Lois thought; a quick look or movement now and then, or her eager eyes, or an abrupt tone of voice, did in some measure betray the country girl, to whom everything was novel and interesting; and distinguished her from the half _blase_, wholly indifferent air of other people. She will learn that quietness soon enough, thought Lois; and then, nothing could be left to desire in Madge. The quietness had always been a characteristic of Lois herself; partly difference of temperament, partly the sweeter poise of Lois's mind, had made this difference between the sisters; and now of course Lois had had more experience of people and the world. But it was not in her the result of experience, this fair, unshaken balance of mind and manner which was always a charm in her. However, this by the way; the girl herself was drawing no comparisons, except so far as to judge her sister handsomer than herself.

From Madge her eye strayed to Mr. Dillwyn, and studied him. She was lying back a little in shadow, and could do it safely. He was teaching Madge the game; and Lois could not but acknowledge and admire in him the finished manner she missed in her sister. Yes, she could not help admiring it. The gentle, graceful, easy way, in which he directed her, gave reproofs and suggestions about the game, and at the same time kept up a running conversation with Mrs. Wishart; letting not one thing interfere with another, nor failing for a moment to attend to both ladies. There was a quiet perfection about the whole home picture; it remained in Lois's memory for ever. Mrs. Wishart sat on an opposite sofa knitting; not a long blue stocking, like her dear grandmother, but a web of wonderful hues, thick and soft, and various as the feathers on a peac.o.c.k's neck. It harmonized with all the rest of the room, where warmth and colour and a certain fulness of detail gave the impression of long-established easy living. The contrast was very strong with Lois's own life surroundings; she compared and contrasted, and was not quite sure how much of this sort of thing might be good for her.

However, for the present here she was, and she enjoyed it. Then she queried if Mr. Dillwyn were enjoying it. She noticed the hand which he had run through the locks of his hair, resting his head on the hand. It was well formed, well kept; in that nothing remarkable; but there was a certain character of energy in the fingers which did not look like the hand of a lazy man. How could he spend his life so in doing nothing?

She did not fancy that he cared much about the game, or much about the talk; what was he there for, so often? Did he, possibly, care about Madge? Lois's thoughts came back to the conversation.

"Mrs. Wishart, what is to be done with the poor of our city?" Mr.

Dillwyn was saying.

"I don't know! I wish something could be done with them, to keep them from coming to the house. My cook turns away a dozen a day, some days."

"Those are not the poor I mean."

"They are poor enough."

"They are to a large extent pretenders. I mean the ma.s.ses of solid poverty which fill certain parts of the city--and not small parts either. It is no pretence there."

"I thought there were societies enough to look after them. I know I pay my share to keep up the societies. What are they doing?"

"Something, I suppose. As if a man should carry a watering-pot to Vesuvius."

"What in the world has turned _your_ attention that way? I pay my subscriptions, and then I discharge the matter from my mind. It is the business of the societies. What has set you to thinking about it?"

"Something I have seen, and something I have heard."

"What have you heard? Are you studying political economy? I did not know you studied anything but art criticism."

"What do you do with your poor at Shampuashuh, Miss Madge?"

"We do not have any poor. That is, hardly any. There is n.o.body in the poorhouse. A few--perhaps half a dozen--people, cannot quite support themselves. Check to your queen, Mr. Dillwyn."

"What do you do with them?"

"O, take care of them. It's very simple. They understand that whenever they are in absolute need of it, they can go to the store and get what they want."

"At whose expense?"

"O, there is a fund there for them. Some of the better-off people take care of that."

"I should think that would be quite too simple," said Mrs. Wishart, "and extremely liable to abuse."

"It is never abused, though. Some of the people, those poor ones, will come as near as possible to starving before they will apply for anything."

Mrs. Wishart remarked that Shampuashuh was altogether unlike all other places she ever had heard of.

"Things at Shampuashuh are as they ought to be," Mr. Dillwyn said.

"Now, Mr. Dillwyn," cried Madge, "I will forgive you for taking my queen, if you will answer a question for me. What is 'art criticism'?"

"Why, Madge, you know!" said Lois from her sofa corner.

"I do not admire ignorance so much as to pretend to it," Madge rejoined. "What is art criticism, Mr. Dillwyn?"

"What is art?"

"That is what I do not know!" said Madge, laughing. "I understand criticism. It is the art that bothers me. I only know that it is something as far from nature as possible."

"O Madge, Madge!" said Lois again; and Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little.