and then to a deep blue in which a great star hung. The soft hoot of a
little owl came through the dusk, and between its calls the men's voices
rose and fell.

Mr. Royall's was full of a sonorous satisfaction. It was a long time
since he had had anyone of Lucius Harney's quality to talk to: Charity
divined that the young man symbolized all his ruined and unforgotten
past. When Miss Hatchard had been called to Springfield by the illness
of a widowed sister, and young Harney, by that time seriously embarked
on his task of drawing and measuring all the old houses between
Nettleton and the New Hampshire border, had suggested the possibility of
boarding at the red house in his cousin's absence, Charity had trembled
lest Mr. Royall should refuse. There had been no question of lodging
the young man: there was no room for him. But it appeared that he could
still live at Miss Hatchard's if Mr. Royall would let him take his meals
at the red house; and after a day's deliberation Mr. Royall consented.

Charity suspected him of being glad of the chance to make a little
money. He had the reputation of being an avaricious man; but she was
beginning to think he was probably poorer than people knew. His practice
had become little more than a vague legend, revived only at lengthening
intervals by a summons to Hepburn or Nettleton; and he appeared to
depend for his living mainly on the scant produce of his farm, and
on the commissions received from the few insurance agencies that he
represented in the neighbourhood. At any rate, he had been prompt in
accepting Harney's offer to hire the buggy at a dollar and a half a
day; and his satisfaction with the bargain had manifested itself,
unexpectedly enough, at the end of the first week, by his tossing a
ten-dollar bill into Charity's lap as she sat one day retrimming her old
hat.