“By no means,” I answered; “neither can I now.”

“They are, indeed, an odiously disagreeable set of mortals,” continued Zenobia.  “I should like Mr. Hollingsworth a great deal better if the philanthropy had been left out.  At all events, as a mere matter of taste, I wish he would let the bad people alone, and try to benefit those who are not already past his help.  Do you suppose he will be content to spend his life, or even a few months of it, among tolerably virtuous and comfortable individuals like ourselves?”

“Upon my word, I doubt it,” said I.  “If we wish to keep him with us, we must systematically commit at least one crime apiece!  Mere peccadillos will not satisfy him.”

Zenobia turned, sidelong, a strange kind of a glance upon me; but, before I could make out what it meant, we had entered the kitchen, where, in accordance with the rustic simplicity of our new life, the supper-table was spread.

IV.  THE SUPPER-TABLE

The pleasant firelight!  I must still keep harping on it.  The kitchen hearth had an old-fashioned breadth, depth, and spaciousness, far within which lay what seemed the butt of a good-sized oak-tree, with the moisture bubbling merrily out at both ends.  It was now half an hour beyond dusk.  The blaze from an armful of substantial sticks, rendered more combustible by brushwood and pine, flickered powerfully on the smoke-blackened walls, and so cheered our spirits that we cared not what inclemency might rage and roar on the other side of our illuminated windows.  A yet sultrier warmth was bestowed by a goodly quantity of peat, which was crumbling to white ashes among the burning brands, and incensed the kitchen with its not ungrateful fragrance.  The exuberance of this household fire would alone have sufficed to bespeak us no true farmers; for the New England yeoman, if he have the misfortune to dwell within practicable distance of a wood-market, is as niggardly of each stick as if it were a bar of California gold.

But it was fortunate for us, on that wintry eve of our untried life, to enjoy the warm and radiant luxury of a somewhat too abundant fire.  If it served no other purpose, it made the men look so full of youth, warm blood, and hope, and the women—­such of them, at least, as were anywise convertible by its magic—­so very beautiful, that I would cheerfully have spent my last dollar to prolong the blaze.  As for Zenobia, there was a glow in her cheeks that made me think of Pandora, fresh from Vulcan’s workshop, and full of the celestial warmth by dint of which he had tempered and moulded her.

“Take your places, my dear friends all,” cried she; “seat yourselves without ceremony, and you shall be made happy with such tea as not many of the world’s working-people, except yourselves, will find in their cups to-night.  After this one supper, you may drink buttermilk, if you please.  To-night we will quaff this nectar, which, I assure you, could not be bought with gold.”