“Courage has its own rewards--even in tea, then!” she retorted, wondering if all the men who lived thus alone knew how to do so many things for themselves? In her experience it had been the other way. Colonel Royall was as helpless as a baby and needed almost as much care, and Jacob Eaton had a scornful disregard of domestic details, only demanding his own comforts, and expecting that his adoring mother would provide them without annoying him with even the ways and means. It occurred to Diana that, perhaps, it was the wide difference in social position, that gentlemen might be helpless in matters where the humbler denizens of the earth had to be accomplished; that, in short, Caleb Trench must make his own tea or go without, while Jacob Eaton could pay for the making of an indefinite succession of cups of tea. Yet, was this man entirely out of her class? Diana tasted the tea, with a critical appreciation of its admirable qualities, and quietly viewed the tea-maker. He was seated again now in the old armchair by the table, and she observed the strong lines of his long-fingered muscular hands, the pose and firmness of the unquestionably intellectual head. There was nothing commonplace, nothing unrefined in his aspect, yet all her training went to place between them an immeasurable social chasm. She regarded him curiously, as one might regard the habitant of another and an inferior hemisphere, and he was poignantly aware of her mental attitude. Neither spoke for a while, and nothing was audible in the room but the crash and uproar of the storm without. In contrast, the light and shelter of the little place seemed like a flower-scented refuge from pandemonium. Diana looked over her teacup at the silent man, who seemed less ill at ease than she was. “I think you are a stranger here, Mr. Trench,” she said, in her soft voice; “at least, we who have been here twenty years call every one else a stranger and a sojourner in the land.” “I have been here only three years,” he replied, “but I do not feel myself altogether a stranger--to backwoodsmen,” he added ironically. She glanced up quickly, recalling the talk between her father and Jacob Eaton. “Is it you who are organizing them?” she asked lightly. Her question took him by surprise, and he showed it; it seemed like an echo of old Judge Hollis. “I’m no organizer, Miss Royall,” he replied simply, stooping to caress the dog, who had come to lay his rough head against his knee. She smiled; something in his manner, an indefinable distinction and fineness, began to make her feel at ease with him. “Is that mere modesty?” she asked. “I wish you would tell me--I love politics and,” she laughed gently, “I’m profoundly ignorant.” His rare smile lighted the repose of his strong face again. “I am not a desirable teacher for you, Miss Royall,” he replied; “I’m that abnormal thing, that black sheep in the neighborhood, a Republican.”