"She thinks she does."

"She does not know the half."

"Philip," said Mrs. Burrage severely and discontentedly, "you are not agreeing with me."

"Not entirely, sister."

"You are as fond of the theatre, or of the opera, as anybody I know."

"I never saw a decent opera in my life."

"Philip!"

"Nor did you."

"How ridiculous! You have been going to the opera all your life, and the theatre too, in half a dozen different countries."

"Therefore I claim to know of what I speak. And if I had a wife--" he paused. His thoughts made two or three leaps; the vision of Lois's sweet, pure dignity came before him, and words were wanting.

"What if you had a wife?" asked his sister impatiently.

"I would rather she would be anything but a 'fast' woman."

"She needn't be 'fast'; but she needn't be precise either."

There was something in Philip's air or his silence which provoked Mrs.

Burrage. She went on with some heat, and defiantly.

"I have no objection to religion, in a proper way. I always teach Chauncey to make the responses."

"Make them yourself?"

"Of course."

"Do you mean them?"

"Mean them!"--

"Yes. Do you mean what you say? When you have said, 'Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable sinners'--did you feel guilty? or miserable?"

"Miserable!"--

"Yes. Did you feel miserable?"

"Philip, I have no idea what you are driving at, unless you are defending these two precise, puritanical young country-women."

"A little of that," he said, smiling, "and a little of something else."

He had risen, as if to go. His sister looked at him, vexed and uncertain. She was proud of her brother, she admired him, as almost people did who knew Mr. Dillwyn. Suddenly she changed her tactics; rose up, and coming to him laid both her hands on his shoulders so that she could raise herself up to kiss him.

"Don't _you_ go and be foolish!" she said. "I will forgive your friend, Philip, but I will not forgive you!"

CHAPTER XLV.

DUTY.

The days of December went by. Lois was herself again, in health; and nothing was in the way of Madge's full enjoyment of New York and its pleasures, so she enjoyed them to the full. She went wherever Mrs.

Wishart would take her. That did not involve any very outrageous dissipation, for Mrs. Wishart, though fond of society, liked it best in moderation. Moderate companies and moderate hours suited her. However, Madge had enough to content her new thirst for excitement and variety, especially as Mr. Dillwyn continually came in to fill up gaps in her engagements. He took her to drive, or to see various sights, which for the country-bred girl were full of enchantment; and he came to the house constantly on the empty evenings.

Lois queried again and again what brought him there? Madge it must be; it could hardly be the society of his old friend Mrs. Wishart. It was not her society that he sought. He was general in his attentions, to be sure; but he played chess with Madge, he accompanied Madge's singing, he helped Madge in her French reading and Italian p.r.o.nunciation, and took Madge out. He did none of these things with Lois. Truly Lois had been asked, and would not go out either alone or with her sister in Mr.

Dillwyn's carriage or in Mr. Dillwyn's convoy. And she had been challenged, and invariably declined, to sing with them; and she did not want to learn the game of chess, and took no help from anybody in her studies. Indeed, Lois kept herself persistently in the background, and refused to accompany her friends to any sort of parties; and at home, though she must sit down-stairs in the evening, she withdrew from the conversation as much as she could.

"My dear," said Mrs. Wishart, much vexed at last, "you do not think it is _wicked_ to go into society, I hope?"

"Not for you. I do not think it would be right for me."

"Why not, pray? Is this Puritanism?"

"Not at all," said Lois, smiling.

"She is a regular Puritan, though," said Madge.

"It isn't that," Lois repeated. "I like going out among people as well as Madge does. I am afraid I might like it too well."

"What do you mean by 'too well'?" demanded her protectress, a little angrily.

"More than would be good for me. Just think--in a little while I must go back to Esterbrooke and teaching; don't you see, I had better not get myself entangled with what would unfit me for my work?"

"Nonsense! That is not your work."

"You are _never_ going back to that horrid place!" exclaimed Madge.

But they both knew, from the manner of Lois's quiet silence, that their positions would not be maintained.

"There's the more reason, if you are going back there by and by, why you should take all the advantage you can of the present," Mrs. Wishart added. Lois gave her a sweet, grateful look, acknowledging her tenderness, but not granting her conclusions. She got away from the subject as soon as she could. The question of the sisters' return home had already been broached by Lois; received, however, by Mrs. Wishart with such contempt, and by Madge with such utter disfavour, that Lois found the point could not be carried; at least not at that time; and then winter began to set in, and she could find no valid reason for making the move before it should be gone again, Mrs. Wishart's intention being unmistakeable to keep them until spring. But how was she going to hold out until spring? Lois felt herself very uncomfortable. She could not possibly avoid seeing Mr. Dillwyn constantly; she could not always help talking to him, for sometimes he would make her talk; and she was very much afraid that she liked to talk to him. All the while she was obliged to see how much attention he was paying to Madge, and it was no secret how well Madge liked it; and Lois was afraid to look at her own reasons for disliking it. Was it merely because Mr. Dillwyn was a man of the world, and she did not want her sister to get entangled with him? her sister, who had made no promise to her grandmother, and who was only bound, and perhaps would not be bound, by Bible commands? Lois had never opened her Bible to study the point, since that evening when Mr. Dillwyn had interrupted her. She was ashamed to do it. The question ought to have no interest for her.

So days went by, and weeks, and the year was near at an end, when the first snow came. It had held off wonderfully, people said; and now when it came it came in earnest. It snowed all night and all day; and slowly then the clouds thinned and parted and cleared away, and the westering sun broke out upon a brilliant world.

Lois sat at her window, looking out at it, and chiding herself that it made her feel sober. Or else, by contrast, it let her know how sober she was. The spectacle was wholly joy-inspiring, and so she had been wont to find it. Snow lying unbroken on all the ground, in one white, fair glitter; snow lying piled up on the branches and twigs of trees, doubling them with white coral; snow in ridges and banks on the opposite sh.o.r.e of the river; and between, the rolling waters. Madge burst in.

"Isn't it glorious?" said Lois. "Come here and see how black the river is rolling between its white banks."