"It really vexes me," observed Zenobia, as we left the room, "that Mr.

Hollingsworth should be such a laggard. I should not have thought him

at all the sort of person to be turned back by a puff of contrary wind,

or a few snowflakes drifting into his face."

"Do you know Hollingsworth personally?" I inquired.

"No; only as an auditor--auditress, I mean--of some of his lectures,"

said she. "What a voice he has! and what a man he is! Yet not so much

an intellectual man, I should say, as a great heart; at least, he moved

me more deeply than I think myself capable of being moved, except by

the stroke of a true, strong heart against my own. It is a sad pity

that he should have devoted his glorious powers to such a grimy,

unbeautiful, and positively hopeless object as this reformation of

criminals, about which he makes himself and his wretchedly small

audiences so very miserable. To tell you a secret, I never could

tolerate a philanthropist before. Could you?"

"By no means," I answered; "neither can I now."

"They are, indeed, an odiously disagreeable set of mortals," continued

Zenobia. "I should like Mr. Hollingsworth a great deal better if the

philanthropy had been left out. At all events, as a mere matter of

taste, I wish he would let the bad people alone, and try to benefit

those who are not already past his help. Do you suppose he will be

content to spend his life, or even a few months of it, among tolerably

virtuous and comfortable individuals like ourselves?"

"Upon my word, I doubt it," said I. "If we wish to keep him with us, we

must systematically commit at least one crime apiece! Mere peccadillos

will not satisfy him."

Zenobia turned, sidelong, a strange kind of a glance upon me; but,

before I could make out what it meant, we had entered the kitchen,

where, in accordance with the rustic simplicity of our new life, the

supper-table was spread.




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