We all sat down,—­grizzly Silas Foster, his rotund helpmate, and the two bouncing handmaidens, included,—­and looked at one another in a friendly but rather awkward way.  It was the first practical trial of our theories of equal brotherhood and sisterhood; and we people of superior cultivation and refinement (for as such, I presume, we unhesitatingly reckoned ourselves) felt as if something were already accomplished towards the millennium of love.  The truth is, however, that the laboring

oar was with our unpolished companions; it being far easier to condescend than to accept of condescension.  Neither did I refrain from questioning, in secret, whether some of us—­and Zenobia among the rest—­would so quietly have taken our places among these good people, save for the cherished consciousness that it was not by necessity but choice.  Though we saw fit to drink our tea out of earthen cups to-night, and in earthen company, it was at our own option to use pictured porcelain and handle silver forks again to-morrow.  This same salvo, as to the power of regaining our former position, contributed much, I fear, to the equanimity with which we subsequently bore many of the hardships and humiliations of a life of toil.  If ever I have deserved (which has not often been the case, and, I think, never), but if ever I did deserve to be soundly cuffed by a fellow mortal, for secretly putting weight upon some imaginary social advantage, it must have been while I was striving to prove myself ostentatiously his equal and no more.  It was while I sat beside him on his cobbler’s bench, or clinked my hoe against his own in the cornfield, or broke the same crust of bread, my earth-grimed hand to his, at our noontide lunch.  The poor, proud man should look at both sides of sympathy like this.

The silence which followed upon our sitting down to table grew rather oppressive; indeed, it was hardly broken by a word, during the first round of Zenobia’s fragrant tea.

“I hope,” said I, at last, “that our blazing windows will be visible a great way off.  There is nothing so pleasant and encouraging to a solitary traveller, on a stormy night, as a flood of firelight seen amid the gloom.  These ruddy window panes cannot fail to cheer the hearts of all that look at them.  Are they not warm with the beacon-fire which we have kindled for humanity?”

“The blaze of that brushwood will only last a minute or two longer,” observed Silas Foster; but whether he meant to insinuate that our moral illumination would have as brief a term, I cannot say.

“Meantime,” said Zenobia, “it may serve to guide some wayfarer to a shelter.”

And, just as she said this, there came a knock at the house door.

“There is one of the world’s wayfarers,” said I.  “Ay, ay, just so!” quoth Silas Foster.  “Our firelight will draw stragglers, just as a candle draws dorbugs on a summer night.”