“Why must I be repelled, Mr. Minot?  Please let me stay here always.  I have no comfort if I have no one to be happy with, and you must take this from me.”

She was no trouble, and such a small eater that she must have paid us four times over for all she had.  Father thought at first her impulsive gifts would be of short duration, but months had revealed her to us, and we realized that she was a marvel of goodness.  Not only interesting herself in us but in others.  Weekly visits were made by her to the poor in our parish, and blessings fell on her head in prayers rising from the lips of her grateful friends.  The semi-monthly sewing circle she caused to be appointed at our house (her side), and with her own hands made all the edibles necessary on every occasion.  She shrank from making calls upon those who were not in need of her services, and never went willingly to any public gathering.  I never knew why, but she was morbidly sensitive on this point.  Once she was over-persuaded, and went to an old-fashioned quilting party with mother, and she came home in a fainting condition, and we worked over her until after midnight.

“I am so cold here,” she said, placing her hand on her heart—­“I will not go out any more, Mrs. Minot; it hurts me.”

We never afterward urged her, nor explained her suffering to the friends who inquired.  She exacted a promise to that effect.

What a strange being our lovely Clara was!  She grew to our hearts as ivy to the oak, and the tendrils of her nature entwined us, creeping a little nearer daily, until the doors of our hearts were covered with their growing beauty.  I should be writing all about her, and not bring myself into my story at all, but the promise I made you must be fulfilled.  At some other time I may write out for you the life and work of this beautiful friend.  My own experience seems to me only a background against which her picture ought to rest.  I have been rambling, for you remember I began to tell you about the coming of Hal’s artist friend from Chicago.  I believe it was the fifteenth of November when he came, and his presence was not a burden as I feared, for he found and filled a place held in reserve for him, and all united with me in saying:  “What a splendid man he is!”

Brother Ben, who was now at an interesting age, called him “a man to study,” and he seemed to be fascinated by him.  His eyes followed every motion, and his ear was keenly alive to every expression of thought.  I sometimes thought Hal wished Ben did not like him as well, for he was constantly availing himself of his society.  Some work fortunately had to be done, else Hal would have been very much troubled to gain an audience.  Clara did not like the artist quite as well as I did, though she said with the rest, “What a splendid man!” and betrayed by no word or act any disregard for his feelings, still I intuitively felt a something she did not say; and when I told her he had made an arrangement to