It is all very well to be urged to suspect, for, within reason, nothing is easier. The world, in the process of our education, deals out so many hard knocks that speedily we begin to look with dubious eyes on every stranger--sometimes, alas! even upon our friends. We suspect the motives of Smith, who recommends a first-rate cigar: does he get a commission? We suspect Brown, who asks us to drop in any evening: has he a marriageable daughter? Jones lauds the latest novel: is he the anonymous author? Robinson advises the purchase of Consolidated Stumers: is he trying to make us "hold the baby"? Suspicion is epidemic. What the world wants is a host of missionary spirits to say, "For goodness' sake do drop suspicion for a while and believe in your fellow man! Smith really does imagine himself a judge of tobacco; Brown, as a matter of fact, thinks you quite a pleasant chap, and his daughter is engaged; Jones never wrote a line in his life, save on a check; and Robinson for once has inside information. Give suspicion a rest!" Ah! if only the other fellow would! Lionel had been told to suspect, and at first found the task no harder than you or I should find it. But apart from the strong inducement to forego suspicion--viz., the physical and mental attractions of Miss Arkwright--every day made it more difficult to sustain the suspicious attitude. The early surprises--the "out of bounds" rule, the dumb servants, the seclusion of his hostess and the like--gave him plenty to wonder at, rich food for a seeker of garbage. But usage made the odd seem ordinary, and Miss Arkwright always had an explanation. The servants had already been accounted for; the prohibition of the village might be a whim (though of course he was not satisfied with this), her own seclusion he guessed, from a hint here and there, was due to a disappointment in early youth. But it was really custom that staled the infinite variety of the first surprises; he had to accept the routine of The Quiet House, and could not be expected to whip up a daily supply of suspicions. One can imagine, perhaps, a Jew in a medieval baron's dungeon waking peacefully and asking his jailer, "What is it to-day, Cedric? A tooth out, the strappado, or the rack? Just a tooth? Good." The analogy is anything but exact, for Lionel did not get a succession of thrills. The daily wonder as to _why_ she forbade him the village; _why_ she did not receive any local god, parson, squire, or doctor; _why_ she did this or that, dwindled imperceptibly. He did not consciously relax: he had to adjust himself to the new conditions; but the effort at adjustment grew less laborious, and soon was in some danger of ceasing altogether.