old of it. Here was not a fine machine, sound
and good, yet in need of regulating, and working, and lubricating to
get it in order; all that had been done, and the smooth running told
how well. By degrees Mr. Dillwyn forgot the lesson, and the class, and
the schoolhouse, and remembered but one thing any more; and that was
Lois. His head and heart grew full of her. He had been in the grasp of
a strong fancy before; a fancy strong enough to make him spend money,
and spend time, for the possible attainment of its object; now it was
fancy no longer. He had made up his mind, as a man makes it up once for
all; not to try to win Lois, but to have her. She, he saw, was as yet
ungrazed by any corresponding feeling towards him. That made no
difference. Philip Dillwyn had one object in life from this time. He
hardly saw or heard Lois's leave-takings with her class, but as she
came up to him he rose.

"I have kept you too long, Mr. Dillwyn; but I could not help it; and
really, you know, it was your own fault."

"Not a minute too long," he assured her; and he put on her cloak and
handed her her bonnet with grave courtesy, and a manner which Lois
would have said was absorbed, but for a certain element in it which
even then struck her. They set out upon their homeward way, but the
walk home was not as the walk out had been. The rain and the wind were
unchanged; the wind, indeed, had an added touch of waywardness as they
more nearly faced it, going this way; and the rain was driven against
them with greater fury. Lois was fain to cling to her companion's arm,
and the umbrella had to be handled with discretion. But the storm had
been violent enough before, and it was no feature of that which made
the difference. Neither was it the fact that both parties were now
almost silent, whereas on the way out they had talked incessantly;
though it was a fact. Perhaps Lois was tired with talking, seeing she
had been doing nothing else for two hours, but what ailed Philip? And
what gave the walk its new character? Lois did not know, though she
felt it in every fibre of her being. And Mr. Dillwyn did not know,
though the cause lay in him. He was taking care of Lois; he had been
taking care of her before; but now, unconsciously, he was doing it as a
man only does it for one woman in the world. Hardly more careful of
her, yet with that indefinable something in the manner of it, which
Lois felt even in the putting on of her cloak in the schoolhouse. I