hould I care for him?" she asked herself wonderingly; and could
not tell.

Then all at once she found herself weeping softly, her head on the
rickety table.

Jim Dodge, too intently absorbed in his own confused thoughts to pay
much attention to Fanny, had walked resolutely in the direction of
Mrs. Solomon Black's house; from which, he reflected, the minister
would be obliged to absent himself for at least an hour. He hoped
Mrs. Black had not induced Lydia to go to the prayer meeting with
her. Why any one should voluntarily go to a prayer meeting passed his
comprehension. Jim had once attended what was known as a "protracted
meeting," for the sole purpose of pleasing his mother, who all at
once had appeared tearfully anxious about his "soul." He had not
enjoyed the experience.

"Are you saved, my dear young brother?" Deacon Whittle had inquired
of him, in his snuffling, whining, peculiarly objectionable tone.

"From what, Deacon?" Jim had blandly inquired. "You in for it, too?"

Whereat the Deacon had piously shaken his head and referred him to
the "mourner's pew," with the hope that he might even yet be plucked
as a brand from the burning.

Lydia had not gone to the prayer meeting. She was sitting on the
piazza, quite alone. She arose when her determined visitor boldly
walked up the steps.

"Oh, it is you!" said she.

An unreasonable feeling of elation arose in the young man's breast.

"Did you think I wasn't coming?" he inquired, with all the egotism of
which he had been justly accused.

He did not wait for her reply; but proceeded with considerable humor
to describe his previous unsuccessful attempts to see her.

"I suppose," he added, "Mrs. Solomon Black has kindly warned you
against me?"

She could not deny it; so smiled instead.

"Well," said the young man, "I give you my word I'm not a villain: I
neither drink, steal, nor gamble. But I'm not a saint, after the
prescribed Brookville pattern."

He appeared rather proud of the fact, she thought. Aloud she said,
with pardonable curiosity:

"What is the Brookville pattern? I ought to know, since I am to live
here."

At this he dropped his bantering tone.

"I wanted to talk to you about that," he said gravely.

"You mean--?"

"About your buying the old Bolton place and paying such a
preposterous price for it, and all the rest, including the minister's
back-pay."

She remained silent, playing with the ribbon of her sash.

"I have a sort of