hard woman?"--with an anxious
look. "I kept all the accounts of it in that blue book I burned
to-night. Nobody must know what it cost. No. Thee'd best go to sleep,
lad. I've an hour's more work, I think. There'll be no time for it
to-morrow, bein' the last day."

He did not like to leave her so feverish and unlike herself.

"Well, good night, then."

"Good night, Andrew. Mine, eh?"--her face flushing. "Thee'll know
to-morrow. Thee thinks it looks comfortable?"--holding his hand
anxiously. "Heartsome? Mis' Hale called the place that the other day. I
was so glad to hear that! Well, good night. _I_ think it does."

And she went back to her work, while Andy made his way up-stairs,
puzzled and sleepy.

The next day was cool and grave for intemperate August. Very seldom a
stream of fresh sunshine broke through the gray, mottling the pavements
with uncertain lights. Summer was evidently tired of its own lusty life,
and had a mind to put on a cowl of hodden-gray, and call itself
November. The pale, pleasant light toned in precisely, however, to the
meaning of Arch and Walnut Streets, where the old Quaker family-life has
rooted itself into the city, and looks out on the passers-by in such a
sober, cheerful fashion. There was one house, low down in Arch, that
would have impressed you as having grown more sincerely than the others
out of the character of its owner. There was nothing bigoted or
purse-proud or bawbling in the habit of the man who built it; from the
massive blocks in the foundation, to the great horse-chestnuts in front,
and the creeping ivy over pictures and bookshelves, there was the same
constant hint of a life liberal, solid, graceful. It had its whim of
expression, too, in the man himself,--a small man, lean,
stoop-shouldered, with gray hair and whiskers, wearing a clergyman's
black suit and white cravat: his every motion was quiet, self-poised,
intelligent; a quizzical, kind smile on the mouth, listening eyes, a
grave forehead; a man who had heard other stories than any in your
life,--of different range, yet who waited, helpful, for yours, knowing
it to be something new and full of an eternal meaning. It was Dr.
Bowdler, rector of an Episcopal church, a man of more influence out of
the Church than any in it. He was in the breakfast-room now, trimming
the hanging-baskets in the window, while his niece finished her coffee:
he "usually saved his appetite for dinner, English fashion; cigars until
then,"--poo