Wilford groaned and Katy’s chance for being Mrs. Cameron was growing constantly less and less as he saw more and more how vast was the difference between the Barlows and himself. Helen, he acknowledged, was passable, though she was not one whom he could ever introduce into New York society; and he was wondering how Katy chanced to be so unlike the rest, when Uncle Ephraim came up from the meadow, and announced himself as ready now to _visit_, apologizing for his apparent neglect, and seeming so absolutely to believe that his company was desirable, that Wilford felt amused, wondering again what Juno, or even Mark Ray, would think of the rough old man, sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall, and going occasionally to the door to relieve himself of his tobacco juice, for chewing was one of the deacon’s weaknesses. His pants were faultlessly clean, and his vest was buttoned nearly up to his throat, but his coat was hanging on a nail out by the kitchen door, and, to Katy’s distress and Wilford’s horror, he sat among them in his shirt sleeves, all unconscious of harm or of the disquiet awakened in the bosom of the young man, who on that point was foolishly fastidious, and who showed by his face how much he was annoyed. Not even the presence of Morris, who came about tea time, was of any avail to lift the cloud from his brow, and he seemed moody and silent until supper was announced. This was the first opportunity Morris had had of trying his powers of persuasion upon the deacon, and now, at a hint from Katy, he said to him in an aside, as they were passing into the dining-room: “Suppose, Uncle Ephraim, you put on your coat for once. It is better than coming to the table so.” “Pooh,” was Uncle Ephraim’s innocent rejoinder, spoken loudly enough for Wilford to hear, “I shan’t catch cold, for I am used to it; besides that, I never could stand the racket this hot weather.” In his simplicity he did not even suspect Morris’s motive, but imputed it wholly to concern for his health. And so Wilford Cameron found himself seated next to a man who wilfully trampled upon all rules of etiquette, shocking him in his most sensitive points, and making him thoroughly disgusted with the country and country people generally. All but Morris and Katy—he _did_ make an exception in their favor, leaning most to Morris, whom he admired more and more, as he became better acquainted with him, wondering how he could content himself to settle down quietly in Silverton, when he would surely die if compelled to live there for a week. Something like this he said to Dr. Grant, when that evening they sat together in the handsome parlor at Linwood, for Morris kindly invited him to spend the night with him.