Mr. Bentley rose from the desk in the corner.

“Oh, it’s you, Hodder,” he said cheerfully, laying his hand on the rector’s arm.  “I was just thinking about you.”

“This is Miss Marcy, Mr. Bentley,” Hodder said.

Mr. Bentley took her hand and led her to a chair.

“Mr. Hodder knows how fond I am of young women,” he said.  “I have six of them upstairs,—­so I am never lonely.”

Mr. Bentley did not appear to notice that her lips quivered.

Hodder turned his eyes from her face.  “Miss Marcy has been lonely,” he explained, “and I thought we might get her a room near by, where she might see them often.  She is going to do embroidery.”

“Why, Sally will know of a room,” Mr. Bentley replied.  “Sam!” he called.

“Yessah—­yes, Mistah Ho’ace.”  Sam appeared at the door.

“Ask Miss Sally to come down, if she’s not busy.”

Kate Marcy sat dumbly in her chair, her hands convulsively clasping its arms, her breast heaving stormily, her face becoming intense with the effort of repressing the wild emotion within her:  emotion that threatened to strangle her if resisted, or to sweep her out like a tide and drown her in deep waters:  emotion that had no one mewing, and yet summed up a life, mysteriously and overwhelmingly aroused by the sight of a room, and of a kindly old gentleman who lived in it!

Mr. Bentley took the chair beside her.

“Why, I believe it’s going to clear off, after all,” he exclaimed.  “Sam predicted it, before breakfast.  He pretends to be able to tell by the flowers.  After a while I must show you my flowers, Miss Marcy, and what Dalton Street can do by way of a garden—­Mr. Hodder could hardly believe it, even when he saw it.”  Thus he went on, the tips of his fingers pressed together, his head bent forward in familiar attitude, his face lighted, speaking naturally of trivial things that seemed to suggest themselves; and careful, with exquisite tact that did not betray itself, to address both.  A passing automobile startled her with the blast of its horn.  “I’m afraid I shall never get accustomed to them,” he lamented.  “At first I used to be thankful there were no trolley cars on this street, but I believe the automobiles are worse.”

A figure flitted through the hall and into the room, which Hodder recognized as Miss Grower’s.  She reminded him of a flying shuttle across the warp of Mr. Bentley’s threads, weaving them together; swift, sure, yet never hurried or flustered.  One glance at the speechless woman seemed to suffice her for a knowledge of the situation.

“Mr. Hodder has brought us a new friend and neighbour, Sally,—­Miss Kate Marcy.  She is to have a room near us, that we may see her often.”

Hodder watched Miss Grower’s procedure with a breathless interest.

“Why, Mrs. McQuillen has a room—­across the street, you know, Mr. Bentley.”

Sally perched herself on the edge of the armchair and laid her hand lightly on Kate Marcy’s.