people, but it had never got so far as friendship. Mrs. Richie's
retreating shyness was courteous, but never cordial; Robert
Ferguson's somber egotism was kind, but never generous. Yet,
owing no doubt to their two children, and to the fact that Mr.
Ferguson was continually bringing things over from his garden
borders, to transplant into hers--it improves the property, he
told her briefly--owing to the children and the flowers, the
landlord and the tenant saw each other rather frequently. On this
especial afternoon, though Mr. Ferguson had found Elizabeth, he
still lingered, perhaps to tell the story of some extraordinary
thing Mrs. Maitland had done that day at the Works. "She's been
the only man in the family since old John died," he ended; "and,
judging from Blair, I guess she'll continue to be."

"She is wonderful!" Mrs. Richie agreed; "but she's lovable, too,
which is more important."

"I should as soon say a locomotive was lovable," he said; "not
that that's against her. Quite the contrary."

The pretty woman on the yellow damask sofa by the fireside
flushed with offense. The fact was, this dry, dogmatic man, old
at thirty-six, lean, and in a time of beards clean-shaven, with
gray hair that stood fiercely up from a deeply furrowed brow, and
kind, unhappy eyes blinking behind the magnifying lenses of his
gold-rimmed glasses, this really friendly neighbor, was always
offending her--though he was rather nice about inside repairs.
"Why do I endure him?" Mrs. Richie said to herself sometimes.
Perhaps it was because, in spite of his manners, and his sneer
that the world was a mighty mean place to live in, and his