Lois went along the hall in that condition of the nerves in which the feet seem to walk without stepping on anything.  She queried what time it could be; was the evening half gone? or had they possibly not done tea yet?  Then the parlour door opened.

“Lois! ­is that you?  Come along; you are just in time; we are at tea.  Hurry, now!”

Lois went to her room, wishing that she could any way escape going to the table; she felt as if her friend and her sister would read the news in her face immediately, and hear it in her voice as soon as she spoke.  There was no help for it; she hastened down, and presently perceived to her wonderment that her friends were absolutely without suspicion.  She kept as quiet as possible, and found, happily, that she was very hungry.  Mrs. Wishart and Madge were busy in talk.

“You remember Mr. Caruthers, Lois?” said the former; ­“Tom Caruthers, who used to be here so often?”

“Certainly.”

“Did you hear he had made a great match?”

“I heard he was going to be married.  I heard that a great while ago.”

“Yes, he has made a very great match.  It has been delayed by the death of her mother; they had to wait.  He was married a few months ago, in Florence.  They had a splendid wedding.”

“What makes what you call a ’great match’?” Madge asked.

“Money, ­and family.”

“I understand money,” Madge went on; “but what do you mean by ‘family,’ Mrs. Wishart?”

“My dear, if you lived in the world, you would know.  It means name, and position, and standing.  I suppose at Shampuashuh you are all alike ­one is as good as another.”

“Indeed,” said Madge, “you are much mistaken, Mrs. Wishart.  We think one is much better than another.”

“Do you?  Ah well, ­then you know what I mean, my dear.  I suppose the world is really very much alike in all places; it is only the names of things that vary.”

“In Shampuashuh,” Madge went on, “we mean by a good family, a houseful of honest and religious people.”

“Yes, Madge,” said Lois, looking up, “we mean a little more than that.  We mean a family that has been honest and religious, and educated too, for a long while ­for generations.  We mean as much as that, when we speak of a good family.”

“That’s different,” said Mrs. Wishart shortly.

“Different from what you mean?”

“Different from what is meant here, when we use the term.”

“You don’t mean anything honest and religious?” said Madge.

“O, honest!  My dear, everybody is honest, or supposed to be; but we do not mean religious.”

“Not religious, and only supposed to be honest!” echoed Madge.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wishart.  “It isn’t that.  It has nothing to do with that.  When people have been in society, and held high positions for generation after generation, it is a good family.  The individuals need not be all good.”

“Oh !” said Madge.

“No.  I know families among the very best in the State, that have been wicked enough; but though they have been wicked, that did not hinder their being gentlemen.”

“Oh !” said Madge again.  “I begin to comprehend.”

“There is too much made of money now-a-days,” Mrs. Wishart went on serenely; “and there is no denying that money buys position. I do not call a good family one that was not a good family a hundred years ago; but everybody is not so particular.  Not here.  They are more particular in Philadelphia.  In New York, any nobody who has money can push himself forward.”

“What sort of family is Mr. Dillwyn’s?”

“O, good, of course.  Not wealthy, till lately.  They have been poor, ever since I knew the family; until the sister married Chauncey Burrage, and Philip came into his property.”

“The Caruthers are rich, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And now the young one has made a great match?  Is she handsome?”

“I never heard so.  But she is rolling in money.”

“What else is she?” inquired Madge dryly.

“She is a Dulcimer.”

“That tells me nothing,” said Madge.  “By the way you speak it, the word seems to have a good deal of meaning for you.”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Wishart.  “She is one of the Philadelphia Dulcimers.  It is an old family, and they have always been wealthy.”

“How happy the gentleman must be!”

“I hope so,” said Mrs. Wishart gravely. “You used to know Tom quite well, Lois.  What did you think of him?”

“I liked him,” said Lois.  “Very pleasant and amiable, and always gentlemanly.  But I did not think he had much character.”

Mrs. Wishart was satisfied; for Lois’s tone was as disengaged as anything could possibly be.

Lois could not bring herself to say anything to Madge that night about the turn in her fortunes.  Her own thoughts were in too much agitation, and only by slow degrees resolving themselves into settled conclusions.  Or rather, for the conclusions were not doubtful, settling into such quiet that she could look at conclusions.  And Lois began to be afraid to do even that, and tried to turn her eyes away, and thought of the hour of half-past ten next morning with trembling and heart-beating.

It came with tremendous swiftness, too.  However, she excused herself from going to the matinee, though with difficulty.  Mrs. Wishart was sure she ought to go; and Madge tried persuasion and raillery.  Lois watched her get ready, and at last contentedly saw the two drive off.  That was good.  She wanted no discussion with them before she had seen Mr. Dillwyn again; and now the coast was clear.  But then Lois retreated to her own room up-stairs to wait; she could not stay in the drawing-room, to be found there.  She would have so much time for preparation as his ring at the door and his name being brought up-stairs would give her.  Preparation for what?  When the summons came, Lois went down feeling that she had not a bit of preparation.

Philip was standing in the middle of the floor, waiting for her; and the apparition that greeted him was so unexpected that he stood still, feasting his eyes with it.  He had always seen Lois calm, collected, moving and speaking with frank independence, although with perfect modesty.  Now? ­how was it?  Eyes cast down, colour coming and going; a look and manner, not of shyness, for she came straight to him, but of the most lovely maidenly consciousness; of all things, that which a lover would most wish to see.  Yet she came straight to him, and as he met her and held out his hand, she put hers in it.

“What are you going to say to me this morning, Lois?” he said softly; for the pure dignity of the girl was a thing to fill him with reverence as well as with delight, and her hand seemed to him something sacred.

Her colour stirred again, but the lowered eyelids were lifted up, and the eyes met his with a most blessed smile in them.

“I am very happy, Mr. Dillwyn,” she said.

Everybody knows how words fail upon occasion; and on this occasion the silence lasted some considerable time.  And then Philip put Lois into one of the big easy-chairs, and went down on one knee at her feet, holding her hand.  Lois tried to collect her spirits to make remonstrance.

“O, Mr. Dillwyn, do not stay there!” she begged.

“Why not?  It becomes me.”

“I do not think it becomes you at all,” said Lois, laughing a little nervously, ­“and I am sure it does not become me.”

“Mistaken on both points!  It becomes me well, and I think it does not become you ill,” said he, kissing the hand he held.  And then, bending forward to carry his kiss from the hand to the cheek, ­“O my darling, how long I have waited for this!”

“Long?” said Lois, in surprise.  How pretty the incredulity was on her innocent face.

“Very long! ­while you thought I was liking somebody else.  There has never been any change in me, Lois.  I have been patiently and impatiently waiting for you this great while.  You will not think it unreasonable, if that fact makes me intolerant of any more waiting, will you?”

“Don’t keep that position!” said Lois earnestly.

“It is the position I mean to keep all the rest of my life!”

But that set Lois to laughing, a little nervously no doubt, yet so merrily that Philip could not but join in.

“Do I not owe everything to you?” he went on presently, with tender seriousness.  “You first set me upon thinking.  Do you recollect your earliest talk to me here in this room once, a good while ago, about being satisfied?”

“Yes,” said Lois, suddenly opening her eyes.

“That was the beginning.  You said it to me more with your looks than with your words; for I saw that, somehow, you were in the secret, and had yourself what you offered to me. That I could not forget.  I had never seen anybody ‘satisfied’ before.”

“You know what it means now?” she said softly.

“To-day? ­ I do!”

“No, no; I do not mean to-day.  You know what I mean!” she said, with beautiful blushes.

“I know.  Yes, and I have it, Lois.  But you have a great deal to teach me yet.”

“O no!” she said most unaffectedly.  “It is you who will have to teach me.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

“How soon may I begin?”

“How soon?”

“Yes.  You do not think Mrs. Wishart’s house is the best place, or her company the best assistance for that, do you?”

“Ah, please get up!” said Lois.

But he laughed at her.

“You make me so ashamed!”

“You do not look it in the least.  Shall I tell you my plans?”

“Plans!” said Lois.

“Or will you tell me your plans?”

“Ah, you are laughing at me!  What do you mean?”

“You were confiding to me your plans of a little while ago; Esterbrooke, and school, and all the rest of it.  My darling! ­that’s all nowhere.”

“But,” ­said Lois timidly.

“Well?”

“That is all gone, of course.  But ­”

“You will let me say what you shall do?”

“I suppose you will.”

“Your hand is in all my plans, from henceforth, to turn them and twist them what way you like.  But now let me tell you my present plans.  We will be married, as soon as you can accustom your self to the idea.  Hush! ­wait.  You shall have time to think about it.  Then, as early as spring winds will let us, we will cross to England.”

“England?” cried Lois.

“Wait, and hear me out.  There we will look about us a while and get such things as you may want for travelling, which one can get better in England than anywhere else.  Then we will go over the Channel and see Paris, and perhaps supplement purchases there.  So work our way ­”

“Always making purchases?” said Lois, laughing, though she caught her breath too, and her colour was growing high.

“Certainly, making purchases.  So work our way along, and get to Switzerland early in June ­say by the end of the first week.”

“Switzerland!”

“Don’t you want to see Switzerland?”

“But it is not the question, what I might like to see.”

“With me it is.”

“As for that, I have an untirable appetite for seeing things.  But ­but,” and her voice lowered, “I can be quite happy enough on this side.”

“Not if I can make you happier on the other.”

“But that depends.  I should not be happy unless I was quite sure it was right, and the best thing to do; and it looks to me like a piece of self-indulgence.  We have so much already.”

The gentle manner of this scruple and frank admission touched Mr. Dillwyn exceedingly.

“I think it is right,” he said.  “Do you remember my telling you once about my old house at home?”

“Yes, a little.”

“I think I never told you much; but now you will care to hear.  It is a good way from this place, in Foster county, and not very far from a busy little manufacturing town; but it stands alone in the country, in the midst of fields and woods that I used to love very much when I was a boy.  The place never came into my possession till about seven or eight years ago; and for much longer than that it has been neglected and left without any sort of care.  But the house is large and old-fashioned, and can be made very pretty; and the grounds, as I think, leave nothing to be desired, in their natural capabilities.  However, all is in disorder, and needs a good deal of work done up on it; which must be done before you take possession.  This work will require some months.  Where can we be better, meanwhile, than in Switzerland?”

“Can the work be done without you?”

“Yes.”

He waited a bit.  The new things at work in Lois’s mind made the new expression of manner and feature a most delicious study to him.  She had a little difficulty in speaking, and he was still and watched her.

“I am afraid to talk about it,” she said at length,

“Why?”

“I should like it so much!” ­

“Therefore you doubt?”

“Yes.  I am afraid of listening just to my own pleasure.”

“You shall not,” said he, laughing.  “Listen to mine.  I want to see your eyes open at the Jung Frau, and Mont Blanc.”

“My eyes open easily at anything,” said Lois, yielding to the laugh; ­“they are such ignorant eyes.”

“Very wise eyes, on the contrary! for they know a thing when they see it.”

“But they have seen so little,” said Lois, finding it impossible to get back to a serious demeanour.

“That sole defect in your character, I propose to cure.”

“Ah, do not praise me!”

“Why not?  I used to rejoice in the remembrance that you were not an angel but human.  Do you know the old lines? ­

   ’A creature not too bright and good
   For human nature’s daily food;
   For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
   Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.’

Only ‘wiles’ you never descend to; ‘blame’ is not to be thought of; if you forbid praise, what is left to me but the rest of it?”

And truly, what with laughter and some other emotions, tears were not far from Lois’s eyes; and how could the kisses be wanting?

“I never heard you talk so before!” she managed to say.

“I have only begun.”

“Please come back to order, and sobriety.”

“Sobriety is not in order, as your want of it shows.”

“Then come back to Switzerland.”

“Ah! ­I want you to go up the AEggischhorn, and to stand on the Goerner Graet, and to cross a pass or two; and I want you to see the flowers.”

“Are there so many?”

“More than on a western prairie in spring.  Most people travel in Switzerland later in the season, and so miss the flowers.  You must not miss them.”

“What flowers are they?”

“A very great many kinds.  I remember the gentians, and the forget-me-nots; but the profusion is wonderful, and exceedingly rich.  They grow just at the edge of the snow, some of them.  Then we will linger a while at Zermatt and Chamounix, and a mountain pension here and there, and so slowly work our way over into Italy.  It will be too late for Rome; but we will go, if you like it, to Venice; and then, as the heats grow greater, get back into the Tyrol.”

“O, Mrs. Barclay had beautiful views from the Tyrol; a few, but very beautiful.”

“How do you like my programme?”

“You have not mentioned glaciers.”

“Are you’ interested in glaciers?”

“Very much.”

“You shall see as much of them as you can see safely from terra firma.”

“Are they so dangerous?”

“Sometimes.”

“But you have crossed them, have you not?”

“Times enough to make me scruple about your doing it.”

“I am very sure-footed.”

He kissed her hand, and inquired again what she thought of his programme.

“There is no fault to be found with the programme.  But ­”

“If I add to it the crossing of a glacier?”

“No, no,” said Lois, laughing; “do you think I am so insatiable?  But ­”

“Would you like it all, my darling?”

“Like it?  Don’t speak of liking,” she said, with a quick breath of excitement.  “But ­”

“Well?  But ­what?”

“We are not going to live to ourselves?” She said it a little anxiously and eagerly, almost pleadingly.

“I do not mean it,” he answered her, with a smile.  “But as to this journey my mind is entirely clear.  It will take but a few months.  And while we are wandering over the mountains, you and I will take our Bibles and study them and our work together.  We can study where we stop to rest and where we stop to eat; I know by experience what good times and places those are for other reading; and they cannot be so good for any as for this.”

“Oh! how good!” said Lois, giving a little delighted and grateful pressure to the hand in which her own still lay.

“You agree to my plans, then?”

“I agree to ­part.  What is that?” ­for a slight noise was heard in the hall. ­“O Philip, get up! ­get up! ­there is somebody coming!”

Mr. Dillwyn rose now, being bidden on this wise, and stood confronting the doorway, in which presently appeared his sister, Mrs. Burrage.  He stood quiet and calm to meet her; while Lois, hidden by the back of the great easy-chair, had a moment to collect herself.  He shielded her as much as he could.  A swift review of the situation made him resolve for the present to “play dark.”  He could not trust his sister, that if the truth of the case were suddenly made known to her, she would not by her speech, or manner, or by her silence maybe, do something that would hurt Lois.  He would not risk it.  Give her time, and she would fit herself to her circumstances gracefully enough, he knew; and Lois need never be told what had been her sister-in-law’s first view of them.  So he stood, with an unconcerned face, watching Mrs. Burrage come down the room.  And she, it may be said, came slowly, watching him.