An hour passed by, when Schmidt heard a footfall in the room behind him, and rising saw an old member of the Society of Friends who came at times to our house, and was indeed trustee for a small estate which belonged to Mistress White.  Nicholas Oldmixon was an overseer in the Fourth street meeting, and much looked up to among Friends as a prompt and vigilant guardian of their discipline.  Perhaps he would have been surprised to be told that he had that in his nature which made the post of official fault-finder agreeable; but so it was, I fancy, and he was here on such an errand.  The asceticism of Friends in those days, and the extent to which Mr. Oldmixon, like the more strict of his sect, carried their views as to gravity of manner and the absence of color in dress and furniture, were especially hateful to Schmidt, who lived and was happy in a region of color and sentiment and gayety.  Both, I doubt not, were good men, but each was by nature and training altogether unable to sympathize with the other.

“Good-evening!” said Schmidt, keeping his seat in the low window-sill.

Mr. Oldmixon returned, “Thee is well, I trust?”

“Ach! with such a sun and the last roses, which seem the most sweet, and these most lovely of fall-flowers, and a good book and a pipe,” said Schmidt, “who will not be well?  Have you the honest blessing of being a smoker?”

“Nay,” said the Quaker, with evident guarding of his words.  “Thee will not take it amiss should I say it is a vain waste of time?”

“But,” answered Schmidt, “time hath many uses.  The one is to be wasted; and this a pipe mightily helps.  I did think once, when I went to meeting, how much more solemn it would be for each man to have a pipe to excuse his silence.”

“Thee jests idly, I fear,” said the Friend, coloring and evidently holding himself in check.  “Is that friend Wholesome in the garden?  I have need to see him.”

“Yea,” said Schmidt, with a broad smile, “he is yonder under a tree, like Adam in the garden.  Let us take a peep at Paradise.”

Mr. Oldmixon held his peace, and walked quietly out of the window and down the graveled path.  There were some who surmised that his years and his remembrance of the three wives he had outlived did not altogether suffice to put away from him a strong sentiment of the sweetness of his ward.  Perhaps it was this notion which lit up with mirth the ruddy face of the German as he walked down the garden behind the slim ascetic figure of the overseer of meeting in his broad hat and drab clothes.  On the way the German plucked a dozen scarlet roses, a late geranium or two and a few leaves of motley Poinsetta.

Wholesome paused a moment to greet quietly the new-comer, and straightway betook himself absently to his walk again to and fro across the garden.  Mistress White would have had the old overseer take her seat, but this he would not do.  He stood a moment near her, as if irresolute, while Schmidt threw himself down on the sward, and, half turning over, tossed roses into the gray lap of Mistress White, saying, “How prettily the God of heaven has dressed them!”