So at last she quieted herself, and fell to a restful enjoyment of her journey, and amused watching of her fellow-travellers, and observing of the country. The country offered nothing very remarkable. After the Sound was lost sight of, the road ran on among farms and fields and villages; now and then crossing a stream; with nothing specially picturesque in land or water. Mrs. Barclay went back to thoughts that led her far away, and forgot both the fact of her travelling and the reason why. Till the civil conductor said at her elbow--"Here's your place, ma'am--Shampuashuh."

Mrs. Barclay was almost sorry, but she rose, and the conductor took her bag, and they went out. The afternoons were short now, and the sun was already down; but Mrs. Barclay could see a neat station-house, with a long platform extending along the track, and a wide, level, green country. The train puffed off again. A few people were taking their way homewards, on foot and in waggons; she saw no cab or omnibus in waiting for the benefit of strangers. Then, while she was thinking to find some railway official and ask instructions, a person came towards her; a woman, bundled up in a shawl and carrying a horsewhip.

"Perhaps you are Mrs. Barclay?" she said unceremoniously. "I have come after you."

"Thank you. And who is it that has come after me?"

"You are going to the Lothrops' house, ain't you? I thought so. It's all right. I'm their aunt. You see, they haven't a team; and I told 'em I'd come and fetch you, for as like as not Tompkins wouldn't be here.

Is that your trunk?--Mr. Lifton, won't you have the goodness to get this into my buggy? it's round at the other side. Now, will you come?"

This last to Mrs. Barclay. And, following her new friend, she and her baggage were presently disposed of in a neat little vehicle, and the owner of it got into her place and drove off.

The soft light showed one of those peaceful-looking landscapes which impress one immediately with this feature in their character. A wide gra.s.sy street, or road, in which carriages might take their choice of tracks; a level open country wherever the eye caught a sight of it; great shadowy elms at intervals, giving an air of dignity and elegance to the place; and neat and well-to-do houses scattered along on both sides, not too near each other for privacy and independence. Cool fresh air, with a savour in it of salt water; and stillness--stillness that told of evening rest, and quiet, and leisure. One got a respect for the place involuntarily.

"They're lookin' for you," the driving lady began.

"Yes. I wrote I would be here to-day."

"They'll do all they can to make you comfortable; and if there's anything you'd like, you've only to tell 'em. That is, anything that can be had at Shampuashuh; for you see, we ain't at New York; and the girls never took in a lodger before. But they'll do what they can."

"I hope I shall not be very exacting."

"Most folks like Shampuashuh that come to know it. That is!--we don't have much of the high-flyin' public; that sort goes over to Castletown, and I'm quite willin' they should; but in summer we have quite a sprinklin' of people that want country and the sea; and they most of 'em stay right along, from the beginning of the season to the end of it. We don't often have 'em come in November, though."

"I suppose not."

"Though the winters here are pleasant," the other went on. "_I_ think they're first-rate. You see, we're so near the sea, we never have it very cold; and the snow don't get a chance to lie. The worst we have here is in March; and if anybody is particular about his head and his eyes, I'd advise him to take 'em somewheres else; but, dear me! there's somethin' to be said about every place. I do hear folks say, down in Florida is a regular garden of Eden; but I don' know! seems to me I wouldn't want to live on oranges all the year round, and never see the snow. I'd rather have a good pippin now than ne'er an orange. Here we are. Mr. Starks!"--addressing a man who was going along the side way--"hold on, will you? here's a box to lift down--won't you bear a hand?"

This service was very willingly rendered, the man not only lifting the heavy trunk out of the vehicle, but carrying it in and up the stairs to its destination. The door of the house stood open. Mrs. Barclay descended from the buggy, Mrs. Marx kept her seat.

"Good-bye," she said. "Go right in--you'll find somebody, and they'll take care of you."

Mrs. Barclay went in at the little gate, and up the path of a few yards to the house. It was a very seemly white house, quite large, with a porch over the door and a balcony above it. Mrs. Barclay went in, feeling herself on very doubtful ground; then appeared a figure in the doorway which put her meditations to flight. Such a fair figure, with a grave, sweet, innocent charm, and a manner which surprised the lady.

Mrs. Barclay looked, in a sort of fascination.

"We are very glad to see you," Lois said simply. "It is Mrs. Barclay, I suppose? The train was in good time. Let me take your bag, and I will show you right up to your room."

"Thank you. Yes, I am Mrs. Barclay; but who are you?"

"I am Lois. Mrs. Wishart wrote to me about you. Now, here is your room; and here is your trunk. Thank you, Mr. Starks.--What can I do for you?

Tea will be ready presently."

"You seem to have obliging neighbours! Ought I not to pay him for his trouble?" said Mrs. Barclay, looking after the retreating Starks.

"Pay? O no!" said Lois, smiling. "Mr Starks does not want pay. He is very well off indeed; has a farm of his own, and makes it valuable."

"He deserves to be well off, for his obligingness. Is it a general characteristic of Shampuashuh?"

"I rather think it is," said Lois. "When you come down, Mrs. Barclay, I will show you your other room."

Mrs. Barclay took off her wrappings and looked about her in a maze. The room was extremely neat and pleasant, with its white naperies and old-fashioned furniture. All that she had seen of the place was pleasant. But the girl!--O Philip, Philip! thought Mrs. Barclay, have you lost your heart here! and what ever will come of it all? I can understand it; but what will come of it!

Down-stairs Lois met her again, and took her into the room arranged for her sitting-room. It was not a New York drawing-room; but many gorgeous drawing-rooms would fail in a comparison with it. Warm-coloured chintz curtains; the carpet neither fine nor handsome, indeed, but of a hue which did not clash violently with the hue of the draperies; plain, dark furniture; and a blaze of soft coal. Mrs. Barclay exclaimed,

"Delightful! O, delightful! Is this my room, did you say? It is quite charming. I am afraid I am putting you to great inconvenience?"

"The convenience is much greater than the inconvenience," said Lois simply. "I hope we may be able to make you comfortable; but my sisters are afraid you will not like our country way of living."

"Are you the housekeeper?"

"No," said Lois, with her pleasant smile again; "I am the gardener and the out-of-doors woman generally; the man of business of the house."

"That is a rather hard place for a woman to fill, sometimes."

"It is easy here, and where people have so little out-of-door business as we have."

She arranged the fire and shut the shutters of the windows; Mrs.

Barclay watching and admiring her as she did so. It was a pretty figure, though in a calico and white ap.r.o.n. The manner of quiet self-possession and simplicity left nothing to be desired. And the face,--but what was it in the face which so struck Mrs. Barclay? It was not the fair features; they _were_ fair, but she had seen others as fair, a thousand times before. This charm was something she had never seen before in all her life. There was a gravity that had no connection with shadows, nor even suggested them; a curious loftiness of mien, which had nothing to do with external position or internal consciousness; and a purity, which was like the grave purity of a child, without the child's want of knowledge or immaturity of mental power. Mrs. Barclay was attracted, and curious. At the same time, the dress and the ap.r.o.n were of a style--well, of no style; the plainest attire of a plain country girl.

"I will call you when tea is ready," said Lois. "Or would you like to come out at once, and see the rest of the family?"

"By all means! let me go with you," Mrs. Barclay answered; and Lois opened a door and ushered her at once into the common room of the family. Here Mrs. Armadale was sitting in her rocking-chair.

"This is my grandmother," said Lois simply; and Mrs. Barclay came up.

"How do you do, ma'am?" said the old lady. "I am pleased to see you."

Mrs. Barclay took a chair by her side, made her greetings, and surveyed the room. It was very cheerful and home-looking, with its firelight, and the table comfortably spread in the middle of the floor, and various little tokens of domestic occupation.

"How pleasant this fire is!" she remarked. "Wood is so sweet!"

"It's better than the fire in the parlour," said Mrs. Armadale; "but that room has only a grate."

"I will never complain, as long as I have soft coal," returned the new guest; "but there is an uncommon charm to me in a wood fire."

"You don't get it often in New York, Lois says."

"Miss Lois has been to the great city, then?"

"Yes, she's been there. Our cousin, Mrs. Wishart, likes to have her, and Lois was there quite a spell last winter; but I expect that's the end of it. I guess she'll stay at home the rest of her life."

"Why should she?"

"Here's where her work is," said the old lady; "and one is best where one's work is."

"But her work might be elsewhere? She'll marry some day. If I were a man, I think I should fall in love with her."