Mrs. Sloman had been at pains to tell me, when my frequent visits to her cottage made it necessary that I should in some fashion explain to her as to what I wanted there, that her niece, Bessie Stewart, was in nowise dependent on her, not even for a home.  “This cottage we rent in common.  It was her father’s desire that her property should not accumulate, and that she should have nothing at my hands but companionship, and”—­with a set and sickly smile—­“advice when it was called for.  We are partners in our expenses, and the arrangement can be broken up at any moment.”

Was this all?  No word of love or praise for the fair young thing that had brightened all her household in these two years that Bessie had been fatherless?

I believe there was love and appreciation, but it was not Mrs. Sloman’s method to be demonstrative or expansive.  She approved of the engagement, and in her grim way had opened an immediate battery of household ledgers and ways and means.  Some idea, too, of making me feel easy about taking Bessie away from her, I think, inclined her to this business-like manner.  I tried to show her, by my own manner, that I understood her without words, and I think she was very grateful to be spared the expression of feeling.  Poor soul! repression had become such a necessity to her!

So we talked on gravely of the weather, and of the celebrated Doctor McQ——­, who was expected to give us an argumentative sermon that morning, until my argument came floating in at the door like a calm little bit of thistledown, to which our previous conversation had been as the thistle’s self.

The plain little church was gay that morning.  Carriage after carriage drove up with much prancing and champing, and group after group of city folk came rustling along the aisles.  It was a bit of Fifth Avenue let into Lenox calm.  The World and the Flesh were there, at least.

In the hush of expectancy that preceded the minister’s arrival there was much waving of scented fans, while the well-bred city glances took in everything without seeming to see.  I felt that Bessie and I were being mentally discussed and ticketed.  And as it was our first appearance at church since—­well, since—­perhaps there was just a little consciousness of our relations that made Bessie seem to retire absolutely within herself, and be no more a part of the silken crowd than was the grave, plain man who rose up in the pulpit.

I hope the sermon was satisfactory.  I am sure it was convincing to a brown-handed farmer who sat beside us, and who could with difficulty restrain his applauding comment.  But I was lost in a dream of a near heaven, and could not follow the spoken word.  It was just a quiet little opportunity to contemplate my darling, to tell over her sweetness and her charm, and to say over and again, like a blundering school-boy, “It’s all mine! mine!”