ia had pumped up at the
start. It had to be carried back again to the cistern; and when the job
was quite finished, he opened the bulkhead, set the tubs in the cellar,
and then, covering the cistern and cellar-case, rubbed his cold hands on
his trousers, and turned to the child.

"Come, Rosie," said he, "we'll be goin'."

It was a very effective finale, but still Amelia suspected no trickery.
The situation seemed to her, just as the two new actors did, entirely
simple, like the course of nature. Only, the day was a little warmer
because they had appeared. She had a new sensation of welcome company.
So it was that, quite to her own surprise, she answered as quickly as he
spoke, and her reply also seemed an inevitable part of the drama:--

"Walk right in. It's 'most dinner-time, an' I'll put on the pot." The
two stepped in before her, and they did not go away.

Amelia herself never quite knew how it happened; but, like all the other
natural things of life, this had no need to be explained. At first,
there were excellent reasons for delay. The man, whose name proved to be
Enoch Willis, was a marvelous hand at a blow, and she kept him a week,
splitting some pine knots that defied her and the boy who ordinarily
chopped her wood. At the end of the week, Amelia confessed that she was
"terrible tired seein' Rosie round in that gormin' kind of a dress;" so
she cut and fitted her a neat little gown from her own red cashmere.
That was the second reason. Then the neighbors heard of the mysterious
guest, and dropped in, to place and label him. At first, following the
lead of undiscouraged fancy, they declared that he must be some of
cousin Silas's connections from Omaha; but even before Amelia had time
to deny that, his ignorance of local tradition denied it for him. He
must have heard of this or that, by way of cousin Silas; but he owned to
nothing defining place or time, save that he had been in the war--"all
through it." He seemed to be a man quite weary of the past and
indifferent to the future. After a half hour's talk with him,
unseasonable callers were likely to withdraw, perhaps into the pantry,
whither Amelia had retreated to escape catechism, and remark jovially,
"Well, 'Melia, you ain't told us who your company is!"

"Mr. Willis," said Amelia. She was emulating his habit of reserve. It
made a part of her new loyalty.

Even to her, Enoch had told no tales; and strangely enough, she was
quite satisfied. She trusted hi