On this morning, Marcus Wilkeson, being in the most tolerant of moods, merely said “Whew!” and took a seat by his favorite window, the lower sash of which he threw wide open, with the vain hope that some of the dust would blow out.  Miss Philomela smiled at this act so as to be seen by him.  But he did not appear to notice it.  Then she whisked her cloth under his very nose, as if to challenge objections.  After this aggravation had been repeated three or four times, Marcus felt compelled to make a mild protest.

“Great deal of dust, sister,” he said, stating what he presumed would not be contradicted.

“Is there?” replied Miss Philomela, exulting in the success of her stratagem. “I didn’t notice it; nor would you, if you had some business to look after, like other people, instead of stopping in the house all day.”

Marcus had heard that argument and triumphantly put it down so often, that he did not think it worth another word.  Consequently he said nothing.

This obstinate silence galled Miss Philomela; and, after waiting full three minutes to see if Marcus would not answer, and meanwhile dusting prodigiously in his neighborhood, she said: 

“Well, it’s some gratification to know that you do not have the hardihood to defend yourself.  You are well aware that nothing can justify a healthy, middle-aged man—­I may say, a young one—­in retiring from active life and society, and becoming a great lazy mope.”

“I’m really too lazy to discuss it now,” replied Marcus, smiling, and filling his meerschaum from the tobacco pouch which hung conveniently at the window’s side.

Philomela regarded him for a moment with an expression of pity and horror.  Then she heaved a sigh, and muttered something about misapplied talents.

“You had better say, ‘Misapplied brooms and dusters,’” retorted her half-brother.  “I should be perfectly happy now, but for this confounded dust.”

“Laugh away.  I know you despise my sisterly advice.  But you can never say that I have not done my duty—­”

“To the furniture, most assuredly,” interrupted Marcus.

Miss Philomela Wilkeson heaved another sigh in the best style of martyrdom, and precipitately left the room, followed by her brother’s cheerful, rattling laugh.

“A good old girl enough,” said Marcus to himself, “but for her well-meaning and strictly conscientious habit of making people miserable.”

Then he lighted his meerschaum, closed the window, squared his chair in front of it, and looked out.  His face instantly flushed with pleasure at a strange sight.  The blinds of the lower parlor windows across the way, which had been shut for several weeks, were now thrown open, and the white-haired old gentleman, looking thin and pale, sat in his armchair in his old place, and was gazing at him.  At least so Marcus thought; but he hesitated to bow until the old gentleman gave a distinct salutation.  Marcus