In his simplicity he did not even suspect Morris’ motive, but imputed it wholly to his concern lest he should take cold.  And so Wilford Cameron found himself seated next to a man who willfully trampled upon all rules of etiquette, shocking him in his most sensitive parts, and making him thoroughly disgusted with the country and country people generally.  All but Morris and Katy—­he did make an exception in their favor, leaning most to Morris, whom he admired more and more as he became better acquainted with him, wondering how he could content himself to settle down quietly in Silverton, when he would surety die if compelled to live there for a week.  Something like this he said to Dr. Grant when that evening they sat together in the handsome parlor at Linwood, for Morris kindly invited him to spend the night with him: 

“I stay at Silverton, first, because I think I can do more good here than elsewhere, and, secondly, because I really like the country and the country people, for, strange and uncouth as they may seem to you, who never lived among them, they have kinder, truer hearts beating beneath their rough exteriors, than are often found in the city.”

This was Morris’ reply, and in the conversation which ensued Wilford Cameron caught glimpses of a nobler, higher phase of manhood than he had thought existed, feeling an unbounded respect for one who, because he believed it to be his duty, was, as it seemed to him, wasting his life among people who could not appreciate his character, though they might idolize the man.  But this did not reconcile Wilford one whit the more to Silverton.  Uncle Ephraim had completed the work commenced by the two feather beds, and at the breakfast, spread next morning in the coziest of breakfast-rooms, he announced his intention of returning to New York that day.  To this Morris offered no objection, but asked to be remembered to the mother, the sisters, and little Jamie, and then invited Wilford to stop altogether at Linwood when he came again to Silverton.

“Thank you; but it is hardly probable that I shall be here very soon,” Wilford replied, adding, as he met the peculiar glance of Morris’ eye:  “I found Miss Katy a delightful traveling acquaintance, and on my way from Newport thought I would renew it and see a little of rustic life.”

Poor Katy! how her heart would have ached could she have heard those words and understood their meaning, just as Morris did, feeling a rising indignation for the man with whom he could not be absolutely angry, he was so self-possessed, so pleasant and gentlemanly, while better than all, was he not virtually giving Katy up? and if he did, might she not turn at last to him?

These were Morris’ thoughts as he walked with Wilford across the fields to the farmhouse, where Katy met them with her sunniest smile, singing to them, at Wilford’s request, her sweetest song, and making him half wish he could revoke his hasty decision and tarry a little longer.  But it was now too late for that; the carriage which would take him to the depot was already on its way from Linwood; and when the song was ended he told her of his intentions to leave on the next train, feeling a pang when he saw how the blood left her cheek and lip, and then came surging back as she said timidly:  “Why need you leave so soon?”