eyes. It was all over in a moment, for Mrs. Martin, seeing Sylvia's
trembling lips, changed the subject quickly.

The last guest was just entering,--a tall trapper-like man who crossed
the room to Mrs. Owen with a long, curious stride. He had shaken hands
with Professor Kelton, and Mrs. Owen introduced him to the Martins, who
by reason of their long absences had never met him before.

"Mr. Ware, this is Sylvia Garrison," said Mrs. Owen.

Sylvia was given then as later to quick appraisements, and she liked the
Reverend John Ware on the instant. He did not look or act or talk in the
least like a minister. He was very dark, and his mustache was only
faintly sprinkled with gray. His hair still showed black at a distance,
though he was sixty-five. He had been, sometime earlier, the pastor of
the First Congregational Church, but after a sojourn in other fields had
retired to live among his old parishioners in the city which had loved
him best. It had been said of him in the days of his pastorate that he
drew the largest congregations and the smallest collections of any
preacher the community had ever known. But Ware was curiously unmindful
of criticism. He had fished and hunted, he had preached charity and
kindness, and when there was an unknown tramp to bury or some
unfortunate girl had yielded to despair, he had officiated at the
funeral, and, if need be, ridden to the cemetery on the hearse.

"I'm Mrs. Owen's neighbor, you know," he explained to Sylvia. "My family
have gone for the summer; I'm hanging on here till my Indian sends me a
postal that the fishing is right on the Nipigon. Nothing like getting
off the train somewhere and being met by an Indian with a paddle on his
shoulder. You can learn a lot from an Indian."