epeated. "Dillwyn? I saw a Mr. Dillwyn at Mrs.
Wishart's once or twice."

"It must be the same. I do not know of two. And he knows Mrs. Wishart.
So you remember him? What do you remember about him?"

"Not much. I have an impression that he knows a great deal, and has
very pleasant manners."

"Quite right. That is the man. So he may come? Thank you."

Lois took up one of her baskets of apples and carried it into the
house, where she deposited it at Mrs. Armadale's feet.

"They are beautiful this year, aren't they, mother? Girls, we are going
to have a visitor."

Charity was brushing up the floor; the broom paused. Madge was sewing;
the needle remained drawn out. Both looked at Lois.

"A visitor!" came from both pairs of lips.

"Yes, indeed. A visitor. A gentleman. And he is coming to stay over
Sunday. So, Charry, you must see and have things very special. And so
must I."

"A gentleman! Who is he? Uncle Tim?"

"Not a bit of it. A young, at least a much younger, gentleman; a
travelled gentleman; an elegant gentleman. A friend of Mrs. Barclay."

"What are we to do with him?"

"Nothing. Nothing whatever. We have nothing to do with him, and
couldn't do it if we had."

"You needn't laugh. We have got to lodge him and feed him."

"That's easy. I'll put the white spread on the bed in the spare room;
and you may get out your pickles."

"Pickles! Is he fond of pickles?"

"I don't know!" said Lois, laughing still. "I have an impression he is
a man who likes all sorts of nice things."

"I hate men who like nice things! But, Lois!--there will be Saturday
tea, and Sunday breakfast and dinner and supper, and Monday morning
breakfast."

"Perhaps Monday dinner."

"O, he can't stay to dinner."

"Why not?"

"It is washing day."

"My dear Charry! to such men Monday is just like all other days; and
washing is--well, of course, a necessity, but it is done by fairies, or
it might be, for all they know about it."

"There's five meals anyhow," Charity went on.--"Wouldn't it be a good
plan to get uncle Tim to be here?"

"What for?"

"Why, we haven't a man in the house."

"What then?"

"Who'll talk to him?"

"Mrs. Barclay will take care of that. You, Charity dear, see to your
pickles."

"I don't know what you mean," said Charity fretfully. "What are we
going to have for dinner, Sunday? I could fricassee a pair of chickens."

"No, Charity, you couldn't. Sunday is Sunday, just as much with Mr.
Dillwyn here.