"Grace is a young man, my dear," he said, "and—and not a very strong-minded one."
"I cannot believe that is true," said Anice. "I do not think we can blame his mind. It is his body that is not strong. Mr. Grace himself has more power than you and mamma and myself all put together."
One of Anice's peculiarities was a certain pretty sententiousness, which, but for its innate refinement, and its sincerity, might have impressed people as being a fault. When she pushed her opposition in that steady, innocent way, Mr. Barholm always took refuge behind an inner consciousness which "knew better," and was fully satisfied on the point of its own knowledge.
When breakfast was over, he rose from the table with the air of a man who had business on hand. Anice rose too, and followed him to the hearth.
"You are going out, I suppose," she said.
"I am going to see Joan Lowrie," he said complacently. "And I have several calls to make besides. Shall I tell the young woman that you will call on her?"
Anice looked down at the foot she had placed on the shining rim of the steel fender.
"Joan Lowrie?" she said reflectively.
"Certainly, my dear. I should think it would please the girl to feel that we are interested in her."
"I should scarcely think—from what Mr. Grace and his friend say—that she is the kind of a girl to be reached in that way," said Anice.
The Rector shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear," he answered, "if we are always to depend upon what Grace says, we shall often find ourselves in a dilemma. If you are going to wait until these collier young women call on you after the manner of polite
