Some men always change the conversation when a woman enters, thinking the subject too weighty for her comprehension; and in ‘sassiety’ they still talk soft nonsense to women because they think women like it; and lots of women have adopted the same idea, and have accepted the same creed--that they do know nothing and always will, and that scientific subjects, like Plymouth Rock pants, are for men folks. Not long ago, you remember, we had a preacher who gave a series of sermons to _men_ only, and a friend of mine who attended tells me the reverend divine gave those men more ‘pointers’ in depravity than they could have guessed alone in a dozen years. But pardon this diversion and let me simply say, that to educate the heart and conscience, you must not separate men from women, nor make foolish distinctions between the ignorant and the cultured. We are all God’s children, and it is all God’s truth, and this is God’s world. The Man told me this, and much more in that delightful day of rest, and he seemed to make no distinction between my childish ignorance and his own unfathomed wisdom. So the sense of weakness was never thrust upon me, and all during that day I seemed to grow in spirit. There came a greater self-respect, a reverence for my own individuality (you will not misunderstand me), an increased universality, a broader outlook, a wider experience. It was only one day as men count time, but I had lived--lived a century. Monday morning came. After breakfast The Man arose and said: “I will go with you, and get the bicycle.” (How did he know? I had not told him anything of my ride). “You can take the train from Jamison, which is about two miles from here. We can soon walk there.” We found the wheel in the bushes, where I had left it by the roadside, and the man pushed it ahead of him with one hand through the mud, walking at a rapid easy stride, arriving at the station just as the train pulled up. My benefactor lifted the bicycle lightly into the baggage-car, bought me a ticket, handed it to me, smiled and was gone. He did not say good-bye. I did not thank him for his kindness, and in fact, not a word was spoken after we left the little log house. Albert Love, the conductor, I knew, as I often rode on his train. Helping me on the car, he laughingly said: “Ah, you got caught in the storm and couldn’t get back, could you?” “I didn’t want to,” I said. “Oh! ah! Relative?” nodding his head in the direction of the retreating form of The Man. “Yes; uncle.” “Hem--they call him a crank here.--’Ll’board.” CHAPTER IX. MARTHA HEATH. I hurried from the depot to the office, and was only an hour behind time. “You are late,” said Mr. Hustler, with a cynical, sickly smile which looked much like a scowl. “Only an hour. Make a note of it and give it to the time-keeper.”