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He observed often during the week that Huldah was depressed. He could not exactly account for it, until he noticed something in his sister’s behavior toward her that awakened his suspicion. As soon as opportunity offered he inquired of Huldah, affecting at the same time to know something about it.

“I don’t want to complain of your sister to you, Mr. Harlow—-“

“Pshaw! call me John; and as for my sister, I know her faults better than you do. Go on, please.”

“Well, it’s only that she told me that Miss Dunton wasn’t used to eating at the same table with servants; and when one of the boys told your father, he was mad, and came to me, and said, ‘Huldah, you must eat when the rest do. If you stay away from the table on account of these city snobs I’ll make a fuss on the spot.’ So, to avoid a fuss, I have kept on going to the table.”

John was greatly vexed with this. He was a chivalrous fellow, and he knew how such a remark must wound a person who had never learned that domestic service had anything degrading in it. And the result was just the opposite of what his sister had hoped. John paid more attention than ever to Huldah Manners because she was the victim of oppression.

The evening before Thanksgiving day the ladies were going to make a visit. It was not at all incumbent on John to go, but he was seeking an opportunity to carry off the brilliant Miss Dunton, who would adorn his parlors when he became rich and distinguished, and who would make so nice a headpiece for his table. And so he had determined to go with them, trusting to some fortunate chance for his opportunity.

But, sitting in the old “best room” in the dark, while the ladies were getting ready, and trying to devise a way by which he might get an opportunity to speak with Miss Dunton alone, it occurred to him that she was at that time in the sitting room waiting for his sister. To step out to where she was, and present the case in a few words, would not be difficult, and it might all be settled before his sister came downstairs. The Fates were against him, however; for, just as he was about to act on his thought, he heard Amanda Holmes’s abundant skirts sweeping down the stairway. He could not help hearing the conversation that followed:

“You see, Janet, I got up this trip to-night to keep John from spending the evening in the kitchen. He hasn’t a bit of dignity, and would spend the evening romping with the children and talking to Huldah if he took it into his head.”

“Well,” said Janet, “one can overlook everything in a man of your brother’s culture. But what a queer way your country servants have of pushing themselves! Wouldn’t I make them know their places!”

And all this was said with the kitchen door open, and with the intention of wounding Huldah.

John’s castles tumbled. The erudite wife alongside the silver tea urn faded out of sight rapidly. If knowledge could not give a touch of humane regard for the feelings of a poor girl toiling dutifully and self-denyingly to support her family, of what account was it?

Two minutes before he was about to give his life to Janet Dunton. Now there was a gulf wider than the world between them. He slipped out of the best room by the outside door and came in through the kitchen. The neighbor’s sleigh that was to call for them was already at the door, and John begged them to excuse him. He had set his heart on helping Huldah make mince pies, as he used to help his mother when a boy. His sister was in despair, but she did not say much. She told John that it was time he was getting over his queer freaks. And the sleigh drove off.