After this little conversation with Captain Rexford about his relatives, and when Sophia had received the other children from the hands of Eliza and repaired with them to the house door, Trenholme also took leave, and rose to accompany her as far as the gate.

Sophia shivered a little when she stepped out upon the narrow wooden gallery in front of the door.

The Rexford house was not situated in the midst of the farm, but between the main road that ran out of the village and the river that here lay for some distance parallel with the road. On the next lot of land stood an empty house in the centre of a large deserted garden; and on the other side of the road, about a quarter of a mile off, stood the college buildings, which were plainly to be seen over flat fields and low log fences. Beyond the college grounds were woods and pastures, and beyond again rose Ch.e.l.laston Mountain. This view was what Sophia and Trenholme looked upon as they stood on the verandah; and all that they saw--field, road, roof, tree, and hill--was covered with sparkling snow. It was a week since the snow came, and Sophia still shivered a little whenever she looked at it.

"I am sorry to see you do not look upon this scene as if it rejoiced your heart," he said. "When you know it better, you will, I hope, love it as I do. It is a glorious climate, Miss Rexford; it is a glorious country. The depressions and fears that grow up with one's life in the Old World fall away from one in this wonderful air, with the stimulus of a new world and a strong young nation all around. This snow is not cold; it is warm. In this garden of yours it is just now acting as a blanket for the germs of flowers that could not live through an English winter, but will live here, and next summer will astonish you with their richness. Nor is it cold for _you_; it is dry as dust; you can walk over it in moccasins, and not be damp: and it has covered away all the decay of autumn, conserving for you in the air such pure oxygen that it will be like new life in your veins, causing you to laugh at the frost."

"I have not your enthusiasm," she replied. Together they led the unsteady feet of the little ones down the crisp snow path which Harold's industrious shovel had made.

Trenholme spoke briefly of the work he was trying to do in his school.

A clergyman has social licence to be serious which is not accorded to other men. Wherefore he spoke as a clergyman might speak to a friend, saying, in general terms, how steep is the ascent when, among mundane affairs, human beings try to tread only where the angels of the higher life may lead.

Sophia a.s.sented, feeling a little sharp because it seemed to her that he was taking up the thread of his acquaintance with her just where it had formerly parted when she had thrown before him the gauntlet of such high resolves and heavenly aims as young girls can easily talk about when they know as yet nothing of their fulfilment. Whether or not Sophia knew more of their fulfilment since then, she had, at least, learned a more humble reverence for the very thought of such struggles, and she was quite ready to believe that the man to whom she had once called to come onward had by this time far outstripped her in the race. She was _ready_ for this belief; but she had not accepted it, because, as yet confused and excited by all that was new, she had formed no conclusion whatever with regard to Trenholme. It had puzzled her somewhat from the outset to find him such a model of elegance in the matter of clothes and manners.

She had, somehow, fancied that he would have a long beard and wear an old coat. Instead of that, his usual manner of accosting her reminded her more of those fashion plates in which one sees tailors' blocks taking off their hats to one another. She did not think this was to his disadvantage; she did not, as yet, think distinctly on the matter at all. She certainly had no time to deliberate during this particular conversation, for her companion, having only a few minutes to utilise, was in a talkative humour. Having spoken of his own work, and made the more general observations on the difficulties of what is commonly called the "narrow road," in a quiet, honest way, he said something more personal.

"I have always felt, Miss Rexford, that it would be a pleasure to me to see you again, because of the strength and courage which you managed to infuse into my youthful aspirations; but now that I have seen you, will you permit me to say that you have been quite unknowingly a help to me again? A week ago I was half-disheartened of my life because of the apparent sordidness of its daily duties, and now that I have seen you giving your life to perform small and una.s.suming services for others, my own duties have appeared more sacred. I can't tell you how much I admire your unselfish devotion to these children. Don't think me rude because I say it. I often think we are shabby to one another because, in the strife, we do not frankly say when we are helped by seeing the brave fight that some one else is making."

They had stopped by the gate, for he was going one way and she and the little ones another. Two strong young firs, with snow upon their shelving branches, formed gateposts. The long broad road was white as their footpath had been.

Sophia answered: "There is no virtue in what I do, for, had I the choice, I certainly should not be their nursemaid."

"Do you know," he said, "I think when we see life in its reality, instead of in its seeming, we shall find that the greatest deeds have been done just because their doers believe that they could not do otherwise."

"I don't see that. If circ.u.mstances shut us up to doing certain things, there is no virtue in doing them. There may be a little virtue in not repining at our fate, but not much."

He did not answer for a minute, but broke the curl of a little snowdrift gently with his stick. Because he did not answer or say good-bye, Sophia tarried for a moment and then looked up at him.

"Miss Rexford," he replied, "the voice of circ.u.mstances says to us just what we interpret it to say. It is in the _needs must_ of a high nature that true n.o.bility lies."

CHAPTER XIII.

It is upon the anniversary of feasts that a family, if despondent at all, feels most despondent. So it fell out that at Christmas-time the homesickness which hitherto had found its antidote in novelty and surprise now attacked the Rexford household. The girls wept a good deal.

Sophia chid them for it sharply. Captain Rexford carried a solemn face.

The little boys were in worse pickles of mischief than was ordinary.

Even Mrs. Rexford was caught once or twice, in odd corners, hastily wiping away furtive tears.

This general despondency seemed to reach a climax one afternoon some days before the end of the year. Without, the wind was blowing and snow was descending; inside, the housework dragged monotonously. The only lively people in the house were the little children. They were playing quite riotously in an upper room, under the care of the Canadian girl, Eliza; but their shouts only elicited sighs from Mrs. Rexford's elder daughters, who were helping her to wash the dinner dishes in the kitchen.

These two elder daughters had, since childhood, always been dressed, so far as convenient, the one in blue, the other in red, and were nicknamed accordingly. Their mother thought it gave them individuality which they otherwise lacked. The red frock and the blue were anything but gay just now, for they were splashed and dusty, and the pretty faces above them showed a decided disposition to pout and frown, even to shed tears.

The kitchen was a long, low room. The unpainted wood of floor, walls, and ceiling was darkened somewhat by time. Two square, four-paned windows were as yet uncurtained, except that Nature, with the kindness of a fairy helper, had supplied the lack of deft fingers and veiled the gla.s.s with such devices of the frost as resembled miniature landscapes of distant alp and nearer minaret. The large, square cooking-stove smoked a little. Between the stove and the other door stood the table, which held the dishes at which worked the neat, quick mother and her rather untidy and idle daughters.

"Really, Blue and Red!" The words were jerked out to conceal a sigh which had risen involuntarily. "This is disgraceful."

Her sharp brown eyes fell on the pile of dishes she had washed, which the two girls, who were both drying them, failed to diminish as fast as she increased it.

"Our cloths are wet," said Blue, looking round the ceiling vaguely, as if a dry dish-towel might be lying somewhere on a rafter.

"I declare--" the mother began, tapping her foot. But what she was going to declare was never known, for just then a knock at the outer door diverted their attention.

However commonplace may be the moment after a door is opened, the moment before the opening is apt to be full of interest, for one can never know but that some cause of delightful excitement is on the other side.

It was Blue who opened the door. She did not at first open it very wide, for she had learned by experience how much icy air could rush in, and the other two, watching from behind, saw her answering some salutation with dubious politeness. Then, after a moment, they saw her open it more widely, and with a shy but hospitable inclination of the pretty head--"Will you walk in?" said Blue.

The young man who immediately entered had a very smart appearance to eyes which had grown accustomed to the working garb of father and brother. He was, moreover, handsome to a degree that is not ordinary.

The curly hair from which he had lifted his fur cap was black and glossy as a blackbird's plumage, and the moustache, which did not cover the full red lips, matched the hair, save that it seemed of finer and softer material. His brown eyes had the glow of health and good spirits in them.

"Dear me!" Mrs. Rexford gave this involuntary exclamation of surprise; then she turned inquiringly to the visitor. It was not in her nature to regard him with an unfriendly eye; and as for Blue and Red, a spot of warm colour had come into each of their sorrowful cheeks. They were too well bred to look at each other or stare at the stranger, but there was a flutter of pleased interest about the muscles of their rosy lips that needed no expressive glances to interpret it.

To be sure, the next few minutes' talk rather rubbed the bloom off their pleasure, as one rubs beauty off a plum by handling; but the plum is still sweet; and the pleasure was still there, being composed purely of the excitement of meeting a young human creature apparently so akin to themselves, but different with that mysterious difference which nature sets between masculine and feminine attributes of mind and heart.

The young man was an American. Any one experienced in American life would have observed that the youth was a wanderer, his tricks of speech and behaviour savouring, not of one locality, but of many. His accent and manner showed it. He was very mannerly. He stated, without loss of time, that, hearing that they had lately come to the country and had some rooms in their house which they did not use, he had taken the liberty of calling to see if they could let him a couple of rooms. He was anxious, he said, to set up as a dentist, and had failed, so far, to find a suitable place.

The disappointment which Blue and Red experienced in finding that the handsome youth was a dentist by profession was made up for by the ecstasy of amus.e.m.e.nt it caused them to think of his desiring to set up his business in their house. They would almost have forgiven Fate if she had withdrawn her latest novelty as suddenly as she had sent him, because his departure would have enabled them to give vent to the mirth the suppression of which was, at that moment a pain almost as great as their girlish natures could bear.

Oh, no, Mrs. Rexford said, they had no rooms to let in the house.

The stranger muttered something under his breath, which to an acute ear might have sounded like "Oh, Jemima!" but he looked so very disconsolate they could not help being sorry for him as he immediately replied, soberly enough, "I _am_ sorry. I can't think of any place else to go, ma'am. I'm _real_ tired, for I've been walking this long time in the loose snow. Will you permit me to sit and rest for a time on the doorstep right outside here till I can think what I better do next?"

Blue fingered the back of a chair nervously.

"Take a chair by the stove and rest yourself," said Mrs. Rexford. She had a dignity about her in dealing with a visitor that was not often apparent in other circ.u.mstances. She added, "We have too lately been strangers ourselves to wish to turn any one weary from our door." Then, in whispered aside, "Dry your dishes, girls."

The dignity of bearing with which she spoke to him altered as she threw her head backward to give this last command.

"I thank you from my heart, madam." The young man bowed--that is, he made an angle of himself for a moment. He moved the chair to which she had motioned him, but did not sit down. "It is impossible for me to sit," said he, fervently, "while a lady stands."

The quaintness and novelty in his accent made them unable to test his manners by any known standard. For all they knew, the most cultured inhabitant of Boston, New York, or Washington might have behaved precisely in this way.

"Sit down, mamma," whispered Blue and Red, with praiseworthy consideration for their mother's fatigue; "we'll finish the dishes."

The girls perceived what, perhaps, the stranger had already perceived, that if their mother consented to sit there was a chance of a more equal conversation. And Mrs. Rexford sat down. Her mind had been unconsciously relieved from the exercise of great dignity by the fact that the stranger did not appear to notice her daughters, apparently a.s.suming that they were only children.

"It is _real_ kind of you, ma'am, to be so kind to me. I don't think _any_ lady has seemed so kind to me since I saw my own mother last."

He looked pensively at the stove.

"Your mother lives in the United States, I suppose." He shook his head sadly. "In heaven now."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Rexford; and then in a minute, "I am glad to see that you feel her loss, I am sure." Here she got half off her chair to poke the damper of the stove. "There is no loss so great as the loss of a mother."

"No, and I _always_ feel her loss most when I am tired and hungry; because, when I was a little chap, you know, it was always when I was tired and hungry that I went home and found her just sitting there, quite natural, waiting for me."

Blue and Red looked at the cupboard. They could not conceive how their mother could refrain from an offer of tea. But, as it was, she gave the young man a sharp glance and questioned him further. Where had he come from? When had he arrived?