Breckon, when he arrived before them, remained talking on foot, and, unlike Lottie’s company, he talked to the mother.  This had happened before from him, but she had not got used to it, and now she deprecated in everything but words his polite questions about her sufferings from the rough weather, and his rejoicing that the worst was probably over.  She ventured the hope that it was so, for she said that Mr. Kenton had about decided to keep on to Holland, and it seemed to her that they had had enough of storms.  He said he was glad that they were going right on; and then she modestly recurred to the earlier opinion he had given her husband that it would be better to spend the rest of the summer in Holland than to go to Italy, as if she wished to conform herself in the wisdom of Mr. Kenton’s decision.  He repeated his conviction, and he said that if he were in their place he should go to The Hague as soon as they had seen Rotterdam, and make it their headquarters for the exploration of the whole country.

“You can’t realize how little it is; you can get anywhere in an hour; the difficulty is to keep inside of Holland when you leave any given point.  I envy you going there.”

Mrs. Kenton inferred that he was going to stop in France, but if it were part of his closeness not to tell, it was part of her pride not to ask.  She relented when he asked if he might get a map of his and prove the littleness of Holland from it, and in his absence she could not well avoid saying to Ellen, “He seems very pleasant.”

“Yes; why not?” the girl asked.

“I don’t know.  Lottie is so against him.”

“He was very kind when you were all sick.”

“Well, you ought to know better than Lottie; you’ve seen him so much more.”  Ellen was silent, and her mother advanced cautiously, “I suppose he is very cultivated.”

“How can I tell?  I’m not.”

“Why, Ellen, I think you are.  Very few girls have read so much.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t care if I were cultivated, Ha is like all the rest.  He would like to joke and laugh.  Well, I think that is nice, too, and I wish I could do it.  But I never could, and now I can’t try.  I suppose he wonders what makes me such a dead weight on you all.”

“You know you’re not that, Ellen!  You musn’t let yourself be morbid.  It hurts me to have you say such things.”

“Well, I should like to tell him why, and see what he would say.”

“Ellen!”

“Why not?  If he is a minister he must have thought about all kinds of things.  Do you suppose he ever knew of a girl before who had been through what I have?  Yes, I would like to know what he would really say.”

“I know what he ought to say!  If he knew, he would say that no girl had ever behaved more angelically.”

“Do you think he would?  Perhaps he would say that if I hadn’t been so proud and silly—­Here he comes!  Shall we ask him?”