Mercy started. "I beg your pardon, Mr. White. I should not think of such a
thing as giving up the lease. I am very sorry you saw how ugly I think the
house. I do think it is the very ugliest house I ever saw," she continued,
speaking with emphatic deliberation; "but, then, I have not seen many
houses. In our village at home, all the houses are low and broad and
comfortable-looking. They look as if they had sat down and leaned back
to take their ease; and they are all neat and clean-looking, and have rows
of flower-beds from the gate to the front door. I never saw a house built
with such a steep angle to its roof as this has," said Mercy, looking up
with the instinctive dislike of a natural artist's eye at the ridgepole of
the old house.

"We have to have our roofs at a sharp pitch, to let the snow slide off in
winter," said Stephen, apologetically, "we have such heavy snows here; but
that doesn't make the angle any less ugly to look at."

"No," said Mercy; and her eyes still roved up and down and over the house,
with not a shadow of relenting in their expression. It was Stephen's turn
to be silent now. He watched her, but did not speak.

Mercy's face was not merely a record of her thoughts: it was a photograph
of them. As plainly as on a written page held in his hand, Stephen White
read the successive phases of thought and struggle which passed through
Mercy's mind for the next five minutes; and he was not in the least
surprised when, turning suddenly towards him with a very sweet smile, she
said in a resolute tone,--

"There! that's done with. I hope you will forgive my rudeness, Mr. White;
but the truth is I was awfully shocked at the first sight of the house. It