“No,” returned Lydia; “I don't really know. But I've often wished I did know.” “Then you didn't teach drawing, in your school?” “How did you know I had a school?” asked Lydia quickly. He disliked to confess his authority, because he disliked the authority, but he said, “Mr. Hicks told us.” “Mr. Hicks!” Lydia gave a little frown as of instinctive displeasure, which gratified Staniford. “Yes; the cabin-boy told him. You see, we are dreadful gossips on the Aroostook,--though there are so few ladies--” It had slipped from him, but it seemed to have no personal slant for Lydia. “Oh, yes; I told Thomas,” she said. “No; it's only a country school. Once I thought I should go down to the State Normal School, and study drawing there; but I never did. Are you--are you a painter, Mr. Staniford?” He could not recollect that she had pronounced his name before; he thought it came very winningly from her lips. “No, I'm not a painter. I'm not anything.” He hesitated; then he added recklessly, “I'm a farmer.” “A farmer?” Lydia looked incredulous, but grave. “Yes; I'm a horny-handed son of the soil. I'm a cattle-farmer; I'm a sheep-farmer; I don't know which. One day I'm the one, and the next day I'm the other.” Lydia looked mystified, and Staniford continued: “I mean that I have no profession, and that sometimes I think of going into farming, out West.” “Yes?” said Lydia. “How should I like it? Give me an opinion, Miss Blood.” “Oh, I don't know,” answered the girl. “You would never have dreamt that I was a farmer, would you?” “No, I shouldn't,” said Lydia, honestly. “It's very hard work.” “And I don't look fond of hard work?” “I didn't say that.” “And I've no right to press you for your meaning.” “What I meant was--I mean--Perhaps if you had never tried it you didn't know what very hard work it was. Some of the summer boarders used to think our farmers had easy times.” “I never was a summer boarder of that description. I know that farming is hard work, and I'm going into it because I dislike it. What do you think of that as a form of self-sacrifice?” “I don't see why any one should sacrifice himself uselessly.” “You don't? You have very little conception of martyrdom. Do you like teaching school?” “No,” said Lydia promptly. “Why do you teach, then?” Staniford had blundered. He knew why she taught, and he felt instantly that he had hurt her pride, more sensitive than that of a more sophisticated person, who would have had no scruple in saying that she did it because she was poor. He tried to retrieve himself. “Of course, I understand that school-teaching is useful self-sacrifice.” He trembled lest she should invent some pretext for leaving him; he could not afford to be left at a disadvantage. “But do you know, I would no more have taken you for a teacher than you me for a farmer.” “Yes?” said Lydia. He could not tell whether she was appeased or not, and he rather feared not. “You don't ask why. And I asked you why at once.”