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This young Evelina, by the fine dignity which had been born with her and not acquired by precept and example, by the sweetly formal diction which seemed her native tongue, had filled him with awe. Now, when he thought she was angered with him, he felt beneath her lady feet, his nostrils choked with a spiritual dust of humiliation.

He went forward blindly. The dusk had deepened; from either side of the road, from the mysterious gloom of the bushes, came the twangs of the katydids, like some coarse rustic quarrellers, each striving for the last word in a dispute not even dignified by excess of passion.

Suddenly somebody jostled him to his own side of the path. “That you, Thomas? Where you been?” said a voice in his ear.

“That you, father? Down to the post-office.”

“Who was that you was talkin’ with back there?”

“Miss Evelina Leonard.”

“That girl that’s stayin’ there–to the old Squire’s?”

“Yes.” The son tried to move on, but his father stood before him dumbly for a minute. “I must be going, father. I’ve got to work on my sermon,” Thomas said, impatiently.

“Wait a minute,” said his father. “I’ve got something to say to ye, Thomas, an’ this is as good a time to say it as any. There ain’t anybody ’round. I don’t know as ye’ll thank me for it–but mother said the other day that she thought you’d kind of an idea–she said you asked her if she thought it would be anything out of the way for you to go up to the Squire’s to make a call. Mother she thinks you can step in anywheres, but I don’t know. I know your book-learnin’ and your bein’ a minister has set you up a good deal higher than your mother and me and any of our folks, and I feel as if you were good enough for anybody, as far as that goes; but that ain’t all. Some folks have different startin’-points in this world, and they see things different; and when they do, it ain’t much use tryin’ to make them walk alongside and see things alike. Their eyes have got different cants, and they ain’t able to help it. Now this girl she’s related to the old Squire, and she’s been brought up different, and she started ahead, even if her father did lose all his property. She ‘ain’t never eat in the kitchen, nor been scart to set down in the parlor, and satin and velvet, and silver spoons, and cream-pots ‘ain’t never looked anything out of the common to her, and they always will to you. No matter how many such things you may live to have, they’ll always get a little the better of ye. She’ll be ‘way above ’em; and you won’t, no matter how hard you try. Some ideas can’t never mix; and when ideas can’t mix, folks can’t.”

“I never said they could,” returned Thomas, shortly. “I can’t stop to talk any longer, father. I must go home.”

“No, you wait a minute, Thomas. I’m goin’ to say out what I started to, and then I sha’n’t ever bring it up again. What I was comin’ at was this: I wanted to warn ye a little. You mustn’t set too much store by little things that you think mean consider’ble when they don’t. Looks don’t count for much, and I want you to remember it, and not be upset by ’em.”

Thomas gave a great start and colored high. “I’d like to know what you mean, father,” he cried, sharply.

“Nothin’. I don’t mean nothin’, only I’m older’n you, and it’s come in my way to know some things, and it’s fittin’ you should profit by it. A young woman’s looks at you don’t count for much. I don’t s’pose she knows why she gives ’em herself half the time; they ain’t like us. It’s best you should make up your mind to it; if you don’t, you may find it out by the hardest. That’s all. I ain’t never goin’ to bring this up again.”