istake about you!" he said, laughing again, but
shaking his head. "But every person is like a new language to those
that see him for the first time; don't you think so? One has to learn
the signs of the language by degrees, before one can read it off like a
book."

"I never thought about that," said Diana. "No; I think that is true of
_some_ people; not everybody. All the Pleasant Valley people seem to me
to belong to one language. All except one, perhaps."

"Who is the exception?" Mr. Knowlton asked quickly.

"I don't know whether you know him."

"O, I know everybody here--or I used to."

"I was thinking of somebody who didn't use to be here. He has only just
come. I mean Mr. Masters."

"The parson?"

"Yes."

"I don't know him much. I suppose he belongs to the _parson_ language,
to carry on our figure. They all do."

"He don't," said Diana. "That is what struck me in him. What are the
signs of the 'parson' language?"

"A black coat and a white neckcloth, to begin with."

"He dresses in grey," said Diana laughing, "or in white; and wears any
sort of a cravat."

"To go on,--Generally a grave face and a manner of great propriety;
with a square way of arranging words."

"Mr. Masters has no manner at all; and he is one of the most
entertaining people I ever knew."

"Jolly sort, eh?"

"No, I think not," said Diana; "I don't know exactly what you mean by
jolly; he is never silly, and he does not laugh much particularly; but
he can make other people laugh."

"Well, another sign is, they put a religious varnish over common
things. Do you recognise that?"

"I recognise that, for I have seen it; but it isn't true of Mr.
Masters."

"I give him up," said young Knowlton. "I am sure I shouldn't like him."

"Why, do you _like_ these common signs of the 'parson language,' as you
call it, that you have been reckoning?"

The answer was a decided negative accompanied with a laugh again; and
then Diana's visitor turned the conversation to the country, and the
place, and the elm trees; looked out of the window and observed that
the haymakers were at work near the house, and finally said he must go
out to look at them nearer--he had not made hay since he was a boy.

He went out, and Diana went back to her mother in the lean-to.

"Mother, young Mr. Knowlton is here."

"Well, keep him out o' _my_ way; that's all I ask."

"Haven't you got through yet?"

"Through! There was but one single pan of ginger-bread lef