gentleman.

"It seems cooler here," the lady went on.

"It is getting to a cooler time of day."

"Why, no, George! Three o'clock is just the crown of the heat. Don't it
look as if nobody ever did anything here? There's no stir at all."

"My eyes see different tokens; they are more versed in business than
yours are--naturally."

"What do your eyes see?"--a little impatiently.

"You may notice that nothing is out of order. There is no bit of fence
out of repair; and never a gate hanging upon its hinges. There is no
carelessness. Do you observe the neatness of this broad street?"

"What should make it unneat? with so few travellers?"

"Ground is the last thing to keep itself in order. I notice, too, the
neat stacks of wood in the wood-sheds. And in the fields we have
passed, the work is all done, up to the minute; nothing hanging by the
eyelids. The houses are full of windows, and all of them shining
bright."

"You might be a newspaper reporter, George! Is this the house we are
coming to? It is quite a large house; quite respectable."

"Did you think that little girl had come out of any but a respectable
house?"

"Pshaw, George! you know what I mean. They are very poor and very plain
people. I suppose we might go straight in?"

They dismissed their vehicle, so burning their ships, and knocked at
the front door. A moment after it was opened by Charity. Her tall
figure was arrayed in a homely print gown, of no particular fashion; a
little shawl was over her shoulders, notwithstanding the heat, and on
her head a sun-bonnet.

"Does Miss Lothrop live here?"

"Three of us," said Charity, confronting the pair with a doubtful face.

"Is Miss Lois at home?"

"She's as near as possible not," said the door-keeper; "but I guess she
is. You may come in, and I'll see."

She opened a door in the hall which led to a room on the north side of
it, corresponding to Mrs. Barclay's on the south; and there she left
them. It was large and pleasant and cool, if it was also very plain;
and Mrs. Lenox sank into a rocking-chair, repeating to herself that it
was 'very respectable.' On a table at one side lay a few books, which
drew Mr. Lenox's curiosity.

"Ruskin's 'Modern Painters'!" he exclaimed, looking at his wife.

"Selections, I suppose."

"No, this is Vol. 5. And the next is Thiers' 'Consulate and Empire'!"

"Translation."

"No. Original. And 'the Old Red Sandstone.'"

"What's that?"

"Hugh Miller."

"Who's H