“Oh,” said his mother, “that is the portrait of the _locum tenens_.” She still spoke of the Rev. William Howard by the name she had first known him by. “He is always being photographed. They are all over the house, and I, an old woman, have not had one taken all my life. Take it out with the tongs.” Her son after some poking in the ashes, for it had fallen far back, brought out a somewhat dusty photograph. “That,” she continued, “is one he sent us two or three months ago. It has been lying in the letter-rack since.” “He is not so spick and span looking as usual,” said Sherman, rubbing the ashes off the photograph with his sleeve. “By the by,” his mother replied, “he has lost his parish, I hear. He is very mediæval, you know, and he lately preached a sermon to prove that children who die unbaptized are lost. He had been reading up the subject and was full of it. The mothers turned against him, not being so familiar with St. Augustine as he was. There were other reasons in plenty too. I wonder that any one can stand that monkeyish fantastic family.” As the way is with so many country-bred people, the world for her was divided up into families rather than individuals. While she was talking, Sherman, who had returned to his chair, leant over the table and began to write hurriedly. She was continuing her denunciation when he interrupted with—“Mother, I have just written this letter to him:— “‘MY DEAR HOWARD: “‘Will you come and spend the autumn with us? I hear you are unoccupied just now. I am engaged to be married, as you know; it will be a long engagement. You will like my betrothed. I hope you will be great friends. “‘Yours expectantly, “‘JOHN SHERMAN.’” “You rather take me aback,” she said. “I really like him,” he answered. “You were always prejudiced against the Howards. Forgive me, but I really want very much to have him here.” “Well, if you like him, I suppose I have no objection.” “I do like him. He is very clever,” said her son, “and knows a great deal. I wonder he does not marry. Do you not think he would make a good husband?—for you must admit he is sympathetic.” “It is not difficult to sympathize with every one if you have no true principles and convictions.” Principles and convictions were her names for that strenuous consistency attained without trouble by men and women of few ideas. “I am sure you will like him better,” said the other, “when you see more of him.” “Is that photograph quite spoilt?” she answered. “No; there was nothing on it but ashes.” “That is a pity, for one less would be something.” After this they both became silent, she knitting, he gazing at the cows browsing at the edge of their stream, and trying to fit squares into their bodies; but now a smile played about his lips.