Nobody. Warner Susan

said Lois. "There are three of us, and so we getalong nicely."

      "Apropos; – My dear, I am sorry that it is so, but must is must. What Iwanted to say to you is, that it is not necessary to tell all this toother people."

      Lois looked up, surprised. "I have told no one but you, Mrs. Wishart. Oyes! I did speak to Mr. Dillwyn about it, I believe."

      "Yes. Well, there is no occasion, my dear. It is just as well not."

      "Is it better not? What is the harm? Everybody at Shampuashuh knowsit."

      "Nobody knows it here; and there is no reason why they should. I meantto tell you this before."

      "I think I have told nobody but Mr. Dillwyn."

      "He is safe. I only speak for the future, my dear."

      "I don't understand yet," said Lois, half laughing. "Mrs. Wishart, weare not ashamed of it."

      "Certainly not, my dear; you have no occasion."

      "Then why should we be ashamed of it?" Lois persisted.

      "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 lookingat things; and they put their own interpretation on things; and ofcourse they often make great blunders. And so it is just as well tokeep your own private affairs to yourself, and not give them theopportunity of blundering."

      Lois was silent a little while.

      "You mean," she said then, – "you think, that some of these people Ihave been seeing here, would think less of me, if they knew how we doat 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, halflaughing again. "I do not like to be taken for what I am not; and I donot want to have anybody's good opinion on false grounds." Her colourrose a bit at the same time.

      "My dear, it is nobody's business. And anybody that once knew you wouldjudge you for yourself, and not upon any adventitious circumstances.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, asshe was going away so soon. And she remembered also that Mr. Dillwynhad 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 bedone yet. It is March."

      "It will soon be April. And the ground must be got ready, and potatoesmust 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 theywere last year."

      "Why not?"

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

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

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

      "I do not understand! Well, my dear, write them word where the peasmust 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 canguess, to arrange all the new order every spring; all has to bechanged; and upon where the peas go depends, perhaps, where thecabbages go, and the corn, and the tomatoes, and everything else. It isa matter for study."

      "Can't somebody else do it for you?" Mrs. Wishart asked compassionately.

      "There is no one else. We have just our three selves; and all that isdone 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 musthave that; I shall go to the Isles of Shoals for a while, and I amgoing to have you there."

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

      CHAPTER VIII

      MRS. ARMADALE

      It was a few days later, but March yet, and a keen wind blowing fromthe sea. A raw day out of doors; so much the more comfortable seemedthe good fire, and swept-up hearth, and gentle warmth filling thefarmhouse kitchen. The farmhouse was not very large, neither byconsequence was the kitchen; however, it was more than ordinarilypleasant to look at, because it was not a servants' room; and so wasfurnished not only for the work, but also for the habitation of thefamily, who made it in winter almost exclusively their abiding-place.The floor was covered with a thick, gay rag carpet; a settee sofalooked inviting with its bright chintz hangings; rocking chairs, wellcushioned, were in number and variety; and a basket of work here, and apretty lamp there, spoke of ease and quiet occupation. One person onlysat there, in the best easy-chair, at the hearth corner; beside her alittle table with a large book upon it and a roll of knitting. She wasnot reading nor working just now; waiting, perhaps, or thinking, withhands folded in her lap. By the look of the hands they had done many ajob of hard work in their day; by the look of the face and air of theperson, 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 orrestlessness upon it any more, if ever there had been, but a very sweetand gracious repose. It was a hard-featured countenance; it had neverbeen handsome; only the beauty of sense and character it had, and thedignity of a well-lived life. Something more too; some thing of a morenoble calm than even the fairest retrospect can give; a more restfulrepose than comes of mere cessation from labour; a deeper content thanhas its ground in the actual present. She was a most reverent person,to look at. Just now she was waiting for something, and listening; forher ear caught the sound of a door, and then the tread of swift feetcoming down the stair, and then Lois entered upon the scene; evidentlyfresh from her journey. She had been to her room to lay by herwrappings and change her dress; she was in a dark stuff gown now, withan enveloping white apron. She came up and kissed once more the facewhich 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 itwas pleasant."

      "Pleasanter than here?"

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

      "What looks strange?"

      "Everything! The house, and the place, and the furniture – I have beenliving 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 lettersdidn'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 theimpression 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 ifI had always lived in it."

      "What?"

      "O grandma, I can never tell you so that you can understand! It waslike 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 withsuch beautiful