e my arm, Miss Lois," said her companion. "I could
shield you better."

"Well," said Lois, half laughing, "since you are here, I may as well
take the good of it."

And then Mr. Dillwyn had got things as he wanted them.

"I ventured to assume, a little while ago, Miss Lois, that duty was
taking you out into this storm; but I confess my curiosity to know what
duty could have the right to do it. If my curiosity is indiscreet, you
can rebuke it."

"It is not indiscreet," said Lois. "I have a sort of a Bible class, in
the upper part of the village, a quarter of a mile beyond the church."

"I understood it was something of that kind, or I should not have
asked. But in such weather as this, surely they would not expect you?"

"Yes, they would. At any rate, I am bound to show that I expect them."

"_Do_ you expect them, to come out to-day?"

"Not all of them," Lois allowed. "But if there would not be one, still
I must be there."

"Why?--if you will pardon me for asking."

"It is good they should know that I am regular and to be depended on.
And, besides, they will be sure to measure the depth of my interest in
the work by my desire to do it. And one can do so little in this world
at one's best, that one is bound to do all one can."

"All one can," Mr. Dillwyn repeated.

"You cannot put it at a lower figure. I was struck with a word in one
of Mrs. Barclay's books--'the Life and Correspondence of John
Foster,'--'Power, to its very last particle, is duty.'"

"But that would be to make life a terrible responsibility."

"Say noble--not terrible!" said Lois.

"I confess it seems to me terrible also. I do not see how you can get
rid of the element of terribleness."

"Yes,--if duty is neglected. Not if duty is done."

"Who does his duty, at that rate?"

"Some people _try_," said Lois.

"And that trying must make life a servitude."

"Service--not servitude!" exclaimed Lois again, with the same
wholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticed
before.

"How do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inward
smile; and yet Mr. Dillwyn was earnest enough too.

"There is more than a line between them," said Lois. "There is all the
distance between freedom and slavery." And the words recurred to her,
"I will walk at liberty, _for I seek thy precepts;_" but she judged
they would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation from
him, so she did not speak them. "_Service_," she we