He laughed and shook his head. "Oh, I've nothing new to say about them. Everybody has said it, from Ecclesiastes to Tolstoi." "They never say anything about just ordinary folks in Endbury that I know." Rankin looked at her whimsically. "Oh, _don't_ they?" "_Do_ they?" Lydia wondered at the possibility. Presently she brought out, as a patently absurd supposition, "You don't mean to say that Endbury people are wicked?" "Do you think that none but wicked people are written about in serious books? No; Lord, no! I don't think they are wicked--just mistaken." "What about? Now we're getting warm. I'll guess in a minute." He looked a little sadly down at her bright, eager face. "I'm afraid you would never guess. It's all gone into your blood. You breathe it in and out as you live, every minute." "What? what? what? You can't say it, you see, when it comes right down to the matter." "Oh, yes, I can; I can ask you if it wouldn't be a tragedy if they should all be killing themselves to get what they really don't want and don't need, and starving for things they could easily have by just putting out their hands." Lydia's blankness was immense. He said, with ironic triumph: "You see, when I do say it you can't make anything out of it." After this he turned for a time all his attention to his work. He had evidently reached a critical point in his undertaking. Lydia watched in silence the deft manipulations of his strong, brown fingers, wondering at the eager, almost sparkling, alertness with which he went from one step to another of the process that seemed unaccountably complicated to her. After he had finally lifted the heavy piece of wood into place, handling its great weight with assurance, and had submitted the joint to the closest inspection, he gave a low whistle of satisfaction with himself, and stepped back to get the general effect. As he did so he happened to glance at the girl, drooping rather listlessly on the stair. He paused instantly, with an exclamation of dismay. "No; I'm not going to cry," Lydia told him with a very small smile, "but it would serve you right if I did." The workman wiped his forehead and surveyed her in perplexity. "What, can I do for you?" he asked. "If you're really serious in asking that," said Lydia with dignity, "I'll tell you. You can take for granted that I am not an idiot or a child and talk to me sensibly. Dr. Melton does. And you can tell me what you started out to--the real reason why you are a common carpenter instead of in the insurance business. Of course if you think it is none of my concern, that's another matter. But you said you would." Rankin looked a little abashed by the grave seriousness of this appeal, although he smiled at its form. "You speak as though I had my reason tied up in a package about me, ready to hand, out." Lydia said nothing, but did not drop her earnest eyes.