Marian is some years older than her sister--old enough to know that there is _evil_ in the world: for neither is the "backwoods" the home of an Arcadian innocence. She knows the schoolmaster sufficiently to dislike him; and, judging by his appearance, one might give her credit for having formed a correct estimate of his character. She suspects the object of his visit; more than that, she knows it: _she is herself its object_. With indifferent grace, therefore, does she receive him: scarcely concealing her aversion as she bids him the customary welcome. Without being gifted with any very acute perception, the new-comer might observe this _degout_ on the part of the young girl. He takes no notice of it however--either by word, or the movement of a feature. On the contrary, he appears perfectly indifferent to the character of the reception given him. Not that his manner betrays anything like swagger--for he is evidently not one of the swaggering sort. Rather is his behaviour characterised by a cool, quiet effrontery--a sort of sarcastic assurance--ten times more irritating. This is displayed in the laconic style of his salutation: "Morning girls! father at home?"-- in the fact of his dismounting without waiting to be invited--in sharply scolding the dog out of his way as he leads his horse to the shed; and, finally, in his throwing the saddle-bags over his arm, and stepping inside the cabin-door, with the air of one who is not only master of the house, but of the "situation." Inside the door he is received by the squatter himself; and in the exchange of salutations, even a casual observer might note a remarkable difference in the manner of the two men; the guest cool, cynical, confident--the host agitated, with eye unsteady, and heart evidently ill at ease. There is a strange significance in the salutation, as also in the little incident that follows. Before a dozen words have passed between the two men, the schoolmaster turns quietly upon his heel, and closes the door behind him--the squatter making no objection to the act, either by word or gesture! The incident may appear of trifling importance; but not so to Marian, who stands near, watching every movement, and listening to every word. Why is the door closed, and by Josh Stebbins?--that rude door, that, throughout the long summer-day, is accustomed to hang open on its raw-hide hinges? All day, and often all night--except during the cold wintry winds, or when rain-storms blow from the west? Why is it now closed, and thus unceremoniously? No wonder that Marian attaches a significance to the act. Neither has she failed to note the agitated mien of her father while receiving his visitor--that father, at all other times, and in the presence of all other people, so bold, fierce, and impassible! She observes all this with a feeling of pain. For such strange conduct there must be a cause, and a serious one: that is her reflection.