“No, you don’t mean to do anything.  I see it.  Good-night,” and she had swept out of the door before he could say another word, or rise from his chair.

She went down the hill into the village.  The earth was stiffening with the frost that lingered late in that latitude, and there were patches of ice, across which she picked her way.  There was a great moon overhead, but just then all beautiful things, and all things that tended to lift her thoughts upward, seemed a mockery.  She reached the quiet home of Rev. Solomon Snow.

“Who knows but he can be spurred up to do something?” she said to herself.

There was only one way to ascertain—­so she knocked at the door, and was received so kindly by Mr. Snow and Mrs. Snow and the three Misses Snow, that she sat down and unburdened herself—­first, of course, as regarded Mr. Robert Belcher, and second, as concerned the Benedicts, father and son.

The position of Mr. Belcher was one which inspired the minister with caution, but the atmosphere was freer in his house than in that of the proprietor.  The vocal engine whose wheels had slipped upon the track with many a whirr, as she started her train in the great house on the hill, found a down grade, and went off easily.  Mr. Snow sat in his arm-chair, his elbows resting on either support, the thumb and every finger of each hand touching its twin at the point, and forming a kind of gateway in front of his heart, which seemed to shut out or let in conviction at his will.  Mrs. Snow and the girls, whose admiration of Miss Butterworth for having dared to invade Mr. Belcher’s library was unbounded, dropped their work, and listened with eager attention.  Mr. Snow opened the gate occasionally to let in a statement, but for the most part kept it closed.  The judicial attitude, the imperturbable spectacles, the long, pale face and white cravat did not prevent Miss Butterworth from “freeing her mind;” and when she finished the task, a good deal had been made of the case of the insane paupers of Sevenoaks, and there was very little left of Mr. Robert Belcher and Mr. Thomas Buffum.

At the close of her account of what she had seen at the poor-house, and what had passed between her and the great proprietor, Mr. Snow cast his eyes up to the ceiling, pursed his lips, and somewhere in the profundities of his nature, or in some celestial laboratory, unseen by any eyes but his own, prepared his judgments.

“Cases of this kind,” said he, at last, to his excited visitor, whose eyes glowed like coals as she looked into his impassive face, “are to be treated with great prudence.  We are obliged to take things as they air.  Personally (with a rising inflection and a benevolent smile), I should rejoice to see the insane poor clothed and in their right mind.”

“Let us clothe ’em, then, anyway,” interjected Miss Butterworth, impatiently.  “And, as for being in their right mind, that’s more than can be said of those that have the care of ’em.”