"My dear, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Do not think I mean that.

Only, people here would not understand it."

"How could they _mis_understand it?"

"You do not know the world, Lois. People have peculiar ways of looking at things; and they put their own interpretation on things; and of course they often make great blunders. And so it is just as well to keep your own private affairs to yourself, and not give them the opportunity of blundering."

Lois was silent a little while.

"You mean," she said then,--"you think, that some of these people I have been seeing here, would think less of me, if they knew how we do at home?"

"They might, my dear. People are just stupid enough for that."

"Then it seems to me I ought to let them know," Lois said, half laughing again. "I do not like to be taken for what I am not; and I do not want to have anybody's good opinion on false grounds." Her colour rose a bit at the same time.

"My dear, it is n.o.body's business. And anybody that once knew you would judge you for yourself, and not upon any advent.i.tious circ.u.mstances.

They cannot, in my opinion, think of you too highly."

"I think it is better they should know at once that I am a poor girl,"

said Lois. However, she reflected privately that it did not matter, as she was going away so soon. And she remembered also that Mr. Dillwyn had not seemed to think any the less of her for what she had told him.

Did Tom Caruthers know?

"But, Lois, my dear, about your going-- There is no garden work to be done yet. It is March."

"It will soon be April. And the ground must be got ready, and potatoes must go in, and peas."

"Surely somebody else can stick in potatoes and peas."

"They would not know where to put them."

"Does it matter where?"

"To be sure it does!" said Lois, amused. "They must not go where they were last year."

"Why not?"

"I don't know! It seems that every plant wants a particular sort of food, and gets it, if it can; and so, the place where it grows is more or less impoverished, and would have less to give it another year. But a different sort of plant requiring a different sort of food, would be all right in that place."

"Food?" said Mrs. Wishart. "Do you mean manure? you can have that put in."

"No, I do not mean that. I mean something the plant gets from the soil itself."

"I do not understand! Well, my dear, write them word where the peas must go."

Lois laughed again.

"I hardly know myself, till I have studied the map," she said. "I mean, the map of the garden. It is a more difficult matter than you can guess, to arrange all the new order every spring; all has to be changed; and upon where the peas go depends, perhaps, where the cabbages go, and the corn, and the tomatoes, and everything else. It is a matter for study."

"Can't somebody else do it for you?" Mrs. Wishart asked compa.s.sionately.

"There is no one else. We have just our three selves; and all that is done we do; and the garden is under my management."

"Well, my dear, you are wonderful women; that is all I have to say.

But, Lois, you must pay me a visit by and by in the summer time; I must have that; I shall go to the Isles of Shoals for a while, and I am going to have you there."

"If I can be spared from home, dear Mrs. Wishart, it would be delightful!"

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. ARMADALE.

It was a few days later, but March yet, and a keen wind blowing from the sea. A raw day out of doors; so much the more comfortable seemed the good fire, and swept-up hearth, and gentle warmth filling the farmhouse kitchen. The farmhouse was not very large, neither by consequence was the kitchen; however, it was more than ordinarily pleasant to look at, because it was not a servants' room; and so was furnished not only for the work, but also for the habitation of the family, who made it in winter almost exclusively their abiding-place.

The floor was covered with a thick, gay rag carpet; a settee sofa looked inviting with its bright chintz hangings; rocking chairs, well cushioned, were in number and variety; and a basket of work here, and a pretty lamp there, spoke of ease and quiet occupation. One person only sat there, in the best easy-chair, at the hearth corner; beside her a little table with a large book upon it and a roll of knitting. She was not reading nor working just now; waiting, perhaps, or thinking, with hands folded in her lap. By the look of the hands they had done many a job of hard work in their day; by the look of the face and air of the person, one could see that the hard work was over. The hands were bony, thin, enlarged at the joints, so as age and long rough usage make them, but quiet hands now; and the face was steady and calm, with no haste or restlessness upon it any more, if ever there had been, but a very sweet and gracious repose. It was a hard-featured countenance; it had never been handsome; only the beauty of sense and character it had, and the dignity of a well-lived life. Something more too; some thing of a more n.o.ble calm than even the fairest retrospect can give; a more restful repose than comes of mere cessation from labour; a deeper content than has its ground in the actual present. She was a most reverent person, to look at. Just now she was waiting for something, and listening; for her ear caught the sound of a door, and then the tread of swift feet coming down the stair, and then Lois entered upon the scene; evidently fresh from her journey. She had been to her room to lay by her wrappings and change her dress; she was in a dark stuff gown now, with an enveloping white ap.r.o.n. She came up and kissed once more the face which had watched her entrance.

"You've been gone a good while, Lois!"

"Yes, grandma. Too long, did you think?"

"I don' know, child. That depends on what you stayed for."

"Does it? Grandma, I don't know what I stayed for. I suppose because it was pleasant."

"Pleasanter than here?"

"Grandma, I haven't been home long enough to know. It all looks and feels so strange to me as you cannot think!"

"What looks strange?"

"Everything! The house, and the place, and the furniture--I have been living in such a different world till my eyes have grown unaccustomed.

You can't think how odd it is."

"What sort of a world have you been living in, Lois? Your letters didn't tell." The old lady spoke with a certain serious doubtfulness, looking at the girl by her side.

"Didn't they?" Lois returned. "I suppose I did not give you the impression because I had it not myself. I had got accustomed to that, you see; and I did not realize how strange it was. I just took it as if I had always lived in it."

"_What?_"

"O grandma, I can never tell you so that you can understand! It was like living in the Arabian Nights."

"I don't believe in no Arabian Nights."

"And yet they were there, you see. Houses so beautiful, and filled with such beautiful things; and you know, grandmother, I like things to be pretty;--and then, the ease, I suppose. Mrs. Wishart's servants go about almost like fairies; they are hardly seen or heard, but the work is done. And you never have to think about it; you go out, and come home to find dinner ready, and capital dinners too; and you sit reading or talking, and do not know how time goes till it is tea-time, and then there comes the tea; and so it is in-doors and out of doors. All that is quite pleasant."

"And you are sorry to be home again?"