id lightly; "but I am inclined to think
she is. She is certainly not a pagan."

"You spoke as if she was a good deal wrapped up in you," continued his
hostess, addressing herself unctuously to the landscape. "I was thinkin'
she'd need something to sustain her if you was to be taken away. There's
nothing but religion that can prepare us for whatever comes. I wonder
who that Jawn's a-bringin' now," she broke off suddenly, holding one of
her fat hands above her eyes and leaning forward with a start. "He does
pick up the queerest lot. I just held my breath the other day when I saw
him fetchin' you. I'd been wantin' a boarder all summer, and kind of
lookin' for one, but I wasn't no more ready for you than if you'd been
measles. It does seem sometimes as if men-folks take a satisfaction in
seein' how they can put a woman to."

Mrs. Dysart wabbled heavily indoors, where she creaked about
unresignedly, putting things to rights. Palmerston closed his eyes and
struggled with a smile that kept breaking into a noiseless laugh. He had
a fair, high-bred face, and his smile emphasized its boyishness.

When the wagon rattled into the acacias west of the vineyard, he got up
and sauntered toward the barn. John Dysart saw him coming, and took two
or three steps toward him with his hand at the side of his mouth.

"He's deaf," he whispered with a violent facial enunciation which must
have assailed the stranger's remaining senses like a yell. "I think
you'll like him; he's a wonderful talker."

The newcomer was a large, seedy-looking man, with the resigned,
unexpectant manner of the deaf. Dysart went around the wagon, and the
visitor put up his trumpet.

"Professor Brownell," John called into it. "I want to make you
acquainted with Mr. Palmerston. Mr. Palmerston is a young man from the
East, a student at Cambridge--no, Oxford"--

"Ann Arbor," interrupted the young man, eagerly.

Dysart ignored the interruption. "He's out here for his health."

The stranger nodded toward the young man approvingly, and dropped the
trumpet as if he had heard enough.

"How do you do, Mr. Palmerston?" he said, reaching down to clasp the
young fellow's slim white hand. "I'm glad to meet a scholar in these
wilds."

Palmerston blushed a helpless pink, and murmured politely. The stranger
dismounted from the wagon with the awkwardness of age and avoirdupois.
John Dysart stood just behind his guest, describing him as if he were a
panorama:--

"I never sa