house, and out of Boston if possible, without letting her know
anything of his presence.

"Well?" said Mrs. Sewell, meeting his face of perplexity with a
penetrating glance. "What is it, David?"

"Nothing. That is--everything! Lemuel Barker is here!"

"Lemuel Barker? Who is Lemuel Barker?" She stood with the pillow-
sham in her hand which she was just about to fasten on the pillow,
and Sewell involuntarily took note of the fashion in which it was
ironed.

"Why, surely you remember! That simpleton at Willoughby Pastures."
If his wife had dropped the pillow-sham, and sunk into a chair
beside the bed, fixing him with eyes of speechless reproach; if she
had done anything dramatic, or said anything tragic, no matter how
unjust or exaggerated, Sewell could have borne it; but she only went
on tying the sham on the pillow, without a word. "The fact is, he
wrote to me some weeks ago, and sent me some specimens of a long
poem."

"Just before you preached that sermon on the tender mercies of the
wicked?"

"Yes," faltered Sewell. "I had been waiting to show you the letter."

"You waited a good while, David."

"I know--I know," said Sewell miserably. "I was waiting--waiting--"