Meanwhile, Walter Fairchilds, alone in his room, his mind too full of the events and characters to which the past day had introduced him to admit of sleep, was picturing, with mingled amusement and regret, the genuine horror of his fastidious relatives could they know of his present environment, among people for whom their vocabulary had but one word—­a word which would have consigned them all, even that sweet-voiced, clear-eyed little Puritan, Matilda Maria, to outer darkness; and that he, their adopted son and brother, should be breaking bread and living on a footing of perfect equality with these villagers he knew would have been, in their eyes, an offense only second in heinousness to that of his apostasy.

XVI

The Wackernagels “CONWERSE”

The next day, being the Sabbath, brought to Tillie two of the keenest temptations she had ever known.  In the first place, she did not want to obey her father and go home after dinner to take care of the children.  All in a day the hotel had become to her the one haven where she would be, outside of which the sun did not shine.

True, by going home she might hope to escape the objectionable Sunday evening sitting-up with Absalom; for in spite of the note she had sent him, telling him of her father’s wish that he must not come to see her at the hotel, she was unhappily sure that he would appear as usual.  Indeed, with his characteristic dogged persistency, he was pretty certain to follow her, whithersoever she went.  And even if he did not, it would be easier to endure the slow torture of his endless visit under this roof, which sheltered also that other presence, than to lose one hour away from its wonderful and mysterious charm.

“Now, look here, Tillie,” said Aunty Em, at the breakfast-table, “you worked hard this week, and this after you’re restin’—­ leastways, unless you want to go home and take care of all them litter of childern.  If you don’t want to go, you just stay—­and I’ll take the blame!  I’ll say I needed you.”

“Let Jake Getz come ‘round here tryin’ to bully you, Tillie,” exclaimed Mr. Wackernagel, “and it won’t take me a week to tell him what I think of him!  I don’t owe him nothin’!”

“No,” agreed Jake Getz’s sister, “we don’t live off of him!”

“And I don’t care who fetches him neither!” added Mr. Wackernagel —­which expression of contempt was one of the most scathing known to the tongue of a Pennsylvania Dutchman.

“What are you goin’ to do, Tillie?” Amanda asked.  “Are you goin’ or stayin’?”

Tillie wavered a moment between duty and inclination; between the habit of servility to her father and the magic power that held her in its fascinating spell here under her uncle’s roof.

“I’m staying,” she faltered.

“Good fur you, Tillie!” laughed her uncle.  “You’re gettin’ learnt here to take your own head a little fur things.  Well, I’d like to get you spoilt good fur your pop—­that’s what I’d like to do!”