“We have to have our roofs at a sharp pitch, to let the snow slide off in winter,” said Stephen, apologetically, “we have such heavy snows here; but that doesn’t make the angle any less ugly to look at.”

“No,” said Mercy; and her eyes still roved up and down and over the house, with not a shadow of relenting in their expression.  It was Stephen’s turn to be silent now.  He watched her, but did not speak.

Mercy’s face was not merely a record of her thoughts:  it was a photograph of them.  As plainly as on a written page held in his hand, Stephen White read the successive phases of thought and struggle which passed through Mercy’s mind for the next five minutes; and he was not in the least surprised when, turning suddenly towards him with a very sweet smile, she said in a resolute tone,—­

“There! that’s done with.  I hope you will forgive my rudeness, Mr. White; but the truth is I was awfully shocked at the first sight of the house.  It isn’t your house, you know, so it isn’t quite so bad for me to say so; and I’m so glad you hate it as much as I do.  Now I am never going to think about it again,—­never.”

“Why, can you help it, Mrs. Philbrick?” asked Stephen, in a wondering tone.  “I can’t.  I hate it more and more, I verily believe, each time I come home; and I think that, if my mother weren’t in it, I should burn it down some night.”

Mercy looked at him with a certain shade of the same contempt with which she had looked at the house; and Stephen winced, as she said coolly,—­

“Why, of course I can help it.  I should be very much ashamed of myself if I couldn’t.  I never allow myself to be distressed by things which I can’t help,—­at least, that sort of thing,” added Mercy, her face clouding with the sudden recollection of a grief that she had not been able to rise above.  “Of course, I don’t mean real troubles, like grief about any one you love.  One can’t wholly conquer such troubles as that; but one can do a great deal more even with these than people usually suppose.  I am not sure that it is right to let ourselves be unhappy about any thing, even the worst of troubles.  But I must hurry home now.  It is growing late.”

“Mrs. Philbrick,” exclaimed Stephen, earnestly:  “please come into the house, and speak to my mother a moment.  You don’t know how she has been looking forward to your coming.”

“Oh, no, I cannot possibly do that,” replied Mercy.  “There is no reason why I should call on your mother, merely because we are going to live in the same house.”

“But I assure you,” persisted Stephen, “that it will give her the greatest pleasure.  She is a helpless cripple, and never leaves her bed.  She has probably been watching us from the window.  She always watches for me.  She will wonder if I do not bring you in to see her.  Please come,” he said with a tone which it was impossible to resist; and Mercy went.