Mr. Russell sighed at this, and looked melancholy, but he didn't explain why, nor answer what father said. Then father had to go back into the station, for a train was nearly due; and I could see he wanted to take Mr. Russell with him, while Mr. Russell wasn't at all in haste to go. Perhaps that was natural enough, his sister being ill in our cottage, and he having no other home in the place. He was to sleep, I had found, at Mrs. Bowman's. For Mrs. Bowman had a spare room, and was glad any time of a lodger. That would be cheaper than going to the inn; and it was plain they had to think about expenses. I wondered how Rupert would like him being there. Father offered to point out the way to Mrs. Bowman's, and Mr. Russell said, "Yes—presently; but might he have just one more cup of tea first?" So father had to go off, leaving him and me together. I didn't think he half liked it, though mother was close by, just across the passage. Father was always so careful of his "little wild rose," as he called me; and of course he didn't know anything much of Mr. Russell yet. I poured out the tea for Mr. Russell, and then waited for him to finish, getting out the grey sock which I was knitting at odd times for my father. Mother never liked to see me nor anybody sitting idle. She always said tongues went faster when fingers went slower; and, to be sure, I didn't get as much work done as I might, when I was set off talking. Mr. Russell seemed in no haste to be done. He sipped his tea, and set it down to cool. Then he leaned back, looking melancholy again, and said, "Poor Mary! The best of sisters!" "I am sure, from her face, she is good," I said. "She is too good," said Mr. Russell, with a sort of smile which I didn't understand. "I don't see how anybody can be too good," I said, and I spoke timidly, for I thought Mr. Russell wonderfully clever. "There are different kinds of goodness," says Mr. Russell; and that was a new notion to me. I couldn't think what he meant; for, to be sure, the Bible don't tell of two kinds. "I should think your sister's was the right kind," I said. "Well—yes," says he. "I didn't mean a 'wrong' kind, you see, when I spoke of different kinds. I only meant that people might be good in too exalted a way for everyday life. That is Mary's tendency, perhaps. Poor dear Mary!" He sighed again, and then he reached out his cup, saying, "Might he have a little more sugar?" I couldn't help a sort of amused feeling at his being able to think about sugar; and yet I was half vexed with myself for being amused. After all, it takes a lot of trouble to bring a man to such a pass that he don't care what he eats or drinks. Women mostly come to that point sooner; and yet not women of the weak and faddy sort; for the worse trouble they are in, the more faddy and complaining they get.