ay-day of the years that were given us to live in. I tried to
analyze this impression, but not with much success.

"It really vexes me," observed Zenobia, as we left the room, "that Mr.
Hollingsworth should be such a laggard. I should not have thought him
at all the sort of person to be turned back by a puff of contrary wind,
or a few snowflakes drifting into his face."

"Do you know Hollingsworth personally?" I inquired.

"No; only as an auditor--auditress, I mean--of some of his lectures,"
said she. "What a voice he has! and what a man he is! Yet not so much
an intellectual man, I should say, as a great heart; at least, he moved
me more deeply than I think myself capable of being moved, except by
the stroke of a true, strong heart against my own. It is a sad pity
that he should have devoted his glorious powers to such a grimy,
unbeautiful, and positively hopeless object as this reformation of
criminals, about which he makes himself and his wretchedly small
audiences so very miserable. To tell you a secret, I never could
tolerate a philanthropist before. Could you?"

"By no means," I answered; "neither can I now."

"They are, indeed, an odiously disagreeable set of mortals," continued
Zenobia. "I should like Mr. Hollingsworth a great deal better if the
philanthropy had been left out. At all events, as a mere matter of
taste, I wish he would let the bad people alone, and try to benefit
those who are not already past his help. Do you suppose he will be
content to spend his life, or even a few months of it, among tolerably
virtuous and comfortable individuals like ourselves?"

"Upon my word, I doubt it," said I. "If we wish to keep him with us, we
must systematically commit at least one crime apiece! Mere peccadillos
will not satisfy him."

Zenobia turned, sidelong, a strange kind of a glance upon me; but,
before I could make out what it meant, we had entered the kitchen,
where, in accordance with the rustic simplicity of our new life, the
supper-table was spread.

IV. THE SUPPER-TABLE

The pleasant firelight! I must still keep harping on it. The kitchen
hearth had an old-fashioned breadth, depth, and spaciousness, far
within which lay what seemed the butt of a good-sized oak-tree, with
the moisture bubbling merrily out at both ends. It was now half an
hour beyond dusk. The blaze from an armful of substantial sticks,
rendered more combustible by brushwood and pine, flickered powerfully
on th