llow in places."

"Nonsense, my dear! Why, I had all the paint upstairs gone over--let
me see--"

And he fell into one of his heavy moods of introspection which
seemed, indeed, not far removed from torpor.

When she had at last roused him with an animated description of the
vegetable garden, he appeared to have forgotten his objections to
having workmen enter his chamber. And Lydia was careful not to recall
it to his mind.

She was still sitting before his desk, ostensibly absorbed in the
rows of incomprehensible figures Deacon Whittle, as general
contractor, had urged upon her attention, when Martha again parted
the heavy cloud of her thoughts.

"The minister, come to see you again," she announced, with a slight
but mordant emphasis on the ultimate word.

"Yes," said Lydia, rousing herself, with an effort. "Mr. Elliot, you
said?"

"I s'pose that's his name," conceded Martha ungraciously. "I set him
in the dining room. It's about the only place with two chairs in it;
an' I shan't have no time to make more lemonade, in case you wanted
it, m'm."

Chapter XIV

The Reverend Wesley Elliot, looking young, eager and pleasingly
worldly in a blue serge suit of unclerical cut, rose to greet her as
she entered.

"I haven't been here in two or three days," he began, as he took the
hand she offered, "and I'm really astonished at the progress you've
been making."

He still retained her hand, as he smiled down into her grave,
preoccupied face.

"What's the trouble with our little lady of Bolton House?" he
inquired. "Any of the workmen on strike, or--"

She withdrew her hand with a faint smile.

"Everything is going very well, I think," she told him.

He was still scrutinizing her with that air of intimate concern,
which inspired most of the women of his flock to unburden themselves
of their manifold anxieties at his slightest word of encouragement.

"It's a pretty heavy burden for you," he said gravely. "You need some
one to help you. I wonder if I couldn't shoulder a few of the grosser
details?"

"You've already been most kind," Lydia said evasively. "But now-- Oh,
I think everything has been thought of. You know Mr. Whittle is
looking after the work."

He smiled, a glimmer of humorous understanding in his fine dark eyes.
"Yes, I know," he said.

A silence fell between them. Lydia was one of those rare women who do
not object to silence. It seemed to her that she had always lived
alone with her am