n me shall never thirst... This is the
bread which cometh down from heaven, that a man may eat thereof and not
die.' Not die of weariness, nor of anything else."

Mrs. Barclay did look with a little curiosity at the words Lois held
before her, but then she put down the book and took the girl in her
arms, holding her close and laying her own head on Lois's shoulder.
Whether the words had moved her, Lois could not tell, or whether it was
the power of her own affection and sympathy; Mrs. Barclay did not
speak, and Lois did not dare add another word. They were still, wrapped
in each other's arms, and one or two of Lois's tears wet the other
woman's cheek; and there was no movement made by either of them; until
the door was suddenly opened and they sprang apart.

"Here's Mr. Midgin," announced the voice of Miss Charity. "Shall he
come in? or ain't there time? Of all things, why can't folks choose
convenient times for doin' what they have to do! It passes me. It's
because it's a sinful world, I suppose. But what shall I tell him? to
go about his business, and come New Year's, or next Fourth of July?"

"You do not want to see him now?" said Lois hastily. But Mrs. Barclay
roused herself, and begged that he might come in. "It is the carpenter,
I suppose," said she.

Mr. Midgin was a tall, loose-jointed, large-featured man, with an
undecided cast of countenance, and slow movements; which fitted oddly
to his big frame and powerful muscles. He wore his working suit, which
hung about him in a flabby way, and entered Mrs. Barclay's room with
his hat on. Hat and all, his head made a little jerk of salutation to
the lady.

"Good arternoon!" said he. "Sun'thin' I kin do here?"

"Yes, Mr. Midgin--I left word for you three days ago," said Lois.

"Jest so. I heerd. And here I be. Wall, I never see a room with so many
books in it! Lois, you must be like a cow in clover, if you're half as
fond of 'em as I be."

"You are fond of reading, Mr. Midgin?" said Mrs. Barclay.

"Wall, I think so. But what's in 'em all?" He came a step further into
the room and picked up a volume from the table. Mrs. Barclay watched
him. He opened the book, and stood still, eagerly scanning the page,
for a minute or two.

"'Lamps of Architectur'," said he, looking then at the
title-page;--"that's beyond me. The only lamps of architectur that _I_
ever see, in Shampuashuh anyway, is them that stands up at the depot,
by the railroad; but here's 'truth,' and '