"Haven't you seen him yet?" "Nay. He hain't been down my way yet. In good time he will. He's had sick folks to see arter, Joe told me; old Jemmy Claflin, and Joe Simmons' boy; and Mis' Atwood, and Eliza." "I think you'll like him," said Diana slowly. "He's not like any minister ever _I_ saw." "What's the odds?" "It isn't so easy to tell. He don't look like a minister, for one thing; nor he don't talk like one; not a bit." "Have we got a gay parson, then?" said the old lady, slightly raising her eyebrows. "Gay? O no! not in the way you mean. In one way he _is_ gay; he is very pleasant; not stiff or grum, like Mr. Hardenburgh; and he is amusing too, in a quiet way, but he _is_ amusing; he is so cool and so quick. O no, he's not gay in the way you mean. I guess he's good." "Do you like him?" Mrs. Bartlett asked. "Yes," said Diana, thinking of the night of Eliza Delamater's accident. "He is very queer." "I don't seem to make him out by your telling, child. I'll have to wait, I guess. I've got no sort of an idea of him, so far. Now, dear, if you'll set the table--dinner's ready; and then we'll have some reading." Diana drew out a small deal table to the middle of the floor, and set on it the delf plates and cups and saucers, the little saltcellar of the same ware, and the knives and forks that were never near Sheffield; in fact, were never steel. But the lettuce came out of the well crisp and fresh and cool; and Mrs. Bartlett's pot-pie crust came out of the pot as spongy and light as possible; and the loaf of "seconds" bread was sweet as it is hard for bread to be that is not made near the mill; and if you and I had been there, I promise you we would not have minded the knives and forks, or the cups either. Mrs. Bartlett's tea was not of corresponding quality, for it came from a country store. However, the cream went far to mend even that. The back door was open for the heat; and the hill-side could be seen through the doorway and part of the soft green meadow slope; and the grasshopper's song and the bell tinkle were not bad music. "And who was that came with you, dear?" Mrs. Bartlett asked as they sat at table. "With me? Did you see me come?" "Surely. I was in the garden. What should hinder me? Who was it druv you, dear?" "It was an accident. Young Mr. Knowlton had got into some trouble with his horse, riding out our way, and came to ask how he could get home. So I brought him." "That's Evan Knowlton! him they are making a soldier of?" "He's made. He's done with his education. He is at home now." "Ain't goin' to be a soldier after all?" "O yes; he _is_ a soldier; but he has got a leave, to be home for awhile." "Well, what sort is he? I don't see what they wanted to make a soldier of him for; his grand'ther would ha' been the better o' his help on the farm, seems to me; and now he'll be off to the ends o' the earth, and doin' nobody knows what. It's the wisdom o' this world. But how has he turned out, Die?"