Louis was original in his expressions and different from all others of his age.  One evening when we were talking of Hal, as we sat on the old doorstone in the moonlight, he said: 

“I have something to do for your brother, Miss Emily, I cannot tell you how, but we shall see, we shall never lose sight of each other, we are always to be friends, Miss Emily.”

And the light of his dark eyes grew deep and it seemed as if I looked into fathomless depths as he turned them full upon me for a moment.

“Only a few hours between this long breath I am taking and the school to which I go (mother has written the professor, asking if I can stay longer—­we shall have an answer to-morrow).  It is doing me good, my mind goes over the country round us here, and I am gathering long breaths that give my mind and body strength.  Ah!  Miss Emily,” he said, as he rose and walked to and fro, “I shall sometime breathe and act as I want to.  I pray every day that my little mother may live to see me doing what I desire to do, and, also, for strength.  I need great strength, Miss Emily.  You will help to keep little mother alive, I know you will.”

And he came back, took both my hands in his own; I felt almost afraid—­I cannot tell you how powerfully expressive his look, voice and gestures were, and he continued: 

“I like you—­like you more than you know; you are true, you can be depended on; you call my little mother your fairy cousin, and I call you her royal friend.  Do me a favor,” he continued, “unbind your massive hair and let it trail over your shoulders.”  And before I realised it my hair swept the doorstone where I sat.  “There,” as he brushed it back from my face, “look up and you are a picture; wear your long hair floating—­why not?”

“Oh, Louis,” I said, “how could I ever work with such a heavy mass about me.  If, as you say, I look like a picture, I certainly ought not to, for I am only a country dandelion even as a picture,” and I laughed.  He looked at me almost fiercely, as he said: 

“Miss Emily, never say it again; you are full of poetry; you have glorious thoughts; you dream while at work; some day you will know yourself;” and then there came the far-away look in his eyes.  Clara came to sit with us, and the evening wore itself into night’s deep shading, and the early hour for rest came to us all.  The professor was amiable and willing to accord two weeks more of freedom to Louis, who seemed to enjoy more every day; and when he entered upon his fourth week, said: 

“He wished that week might hold a hundred days.”

It seemed to me that since Clara came to us she had been the constant cause of surprise either in one way or another.  In herself, as an individual, she was to me a problem of no little consequence and not easily solved, and she was continually bringing forth something unexpected.

The last of the third week of Louis’ stay was made memorable by one of her demonstrations.  It was Wednesday evening, the last of our ironing was finished, and mother and I were folding the clothes as we took them down from the old-fashioned horse, when we heard her sweet voice claiming us for special consultation.