you do?" he said; and then planting himself adventurously upon the
commandment to love one's neighbour as one's-self, he added: "I'm
very glad to see you!"

In token of his content, he gave Barker his hand and asked him to be
seated.

The young man complied, and while Sewell waited for him to present
himself in some shape that he could grapple with morally, he made an
involuntary study of his personal appearance. That morning, before
starting from home by the milk-train that left Willoughby Pastures
at 4.5, Barker had given his Sunday boots a coat of blacking, which
he had eked out with stove-polish, and he had put on his best
pantaloons, which he had outgrown, and which, having been made very
tight a season after tight pantaloons had gone out of fashion in
Boston, caught on the tops of his boots and stuck there in spite of
his efforts to kick them loose as he stood up, and his secret
attempts to smooth them down when he had reseated himself. He wore a
single-breasted coat of cheap broadcloth, fastened across his chest
with a carnelian clasp-button of his father's, such as country youth
wore thirty years ago, and a belated summer scarf of gingham, tied
in a breadth of knot long since abandoned by polite society.

Sewell had never thought his wife's reception-room very splendidly
appointed, but Barker must have been oppressed by it, for he sat in
absolute silence after resuming his chair, and made no sign of
intending to open the matter upon which he came. In the kindness of
his heart Sewell could not refrain from helping him on.

"When did you come to Boston?" he asked with a cheeriness which he