That evening at supper she noted his table deportment; it was
correct in every detail. He ate leisurely, silently, gracefully;
his knife and fork never clattered, his elbows never were in
evidence, he made use of the right plates, spoons, forks, knives;
he bore an ease, an unconsciousness of manner that amazed her. The
missionary himself was a stiff man, and his very shyness made him
angular. Against such a setting young Mansion gleamed like a brown
gem.
* * * * *
For seven years life rolled slowly by. At times Lydia went to visit
her two other married sisters, sometimes she remained for weeks
with a married brother, and at rare intervals made brief trips to
her father's house; but she never received a penny from her strange
parent, and knew of but one home which was worthy the name. That
was in the Canadian wilderness where the Indian Mission held out
its arms to her, and the beloved sister made her more welcome than
words could imply. Four pretty children had come to grace this
forest household, where young George Mansion, still the veriest
right hand of the missionary, had grown into a magnificent type
of Mohawk manhood. These years had brought him much, and he had
accomplished far more than idle chance could ever throw in his
way.
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