The tanager was still on the acacia, from this nearer point looking like a great scarlet blossom of some cactus, so intense was the colour; but Winifred was distracted from her interest in the bird by seeing the old house more plainly than she had ever seen it before.  It stood, a large substantial dwelling, built not without the variety of outline which custom has given to modern villas, but with all its doors and windows on this side fastened by wooden shutters, that, with one or two exceptions, were nailed up with crossbeams and overgrown with cobwebs.  Winifred surveyed it with an interested glance.

“Did you come to see him?” whispered the housekeeper.

Winifred’s eye reverted to the tanager of which, on the whole, her mind was more full.  “Yes”—­she whispered the word for fear of startling it.

“I should think yer ma would want you in of a morning, or Miss Sophia would be learning you yer lessons.  When I was your age—­But”—­sadly—­“it stands to reason yer ma, having so many, and the servant gone, and the cows comin’ in so fast these days one after t’other, that they can’t learn you much of anything reg’lar.”

Winifred acquiesced politely.  She was quite conscious of the shortcomings in the system of home education as it was being applied to her in those days; no critic so keen in these matters as the pupil of fourteen!

“Well now, it’s a pity,” said the housekeeper, sincerely, “and they do say yer ma does deplorable bad cooking, and yer sisters that’s older than you aren’t great hands at learning.”  The housekeeper sat down on a grave near the paling, as if too discouraged at the picture she had drawn to have energy to stand longer.

Winifred looked at the tanager, at the housekeeper, and round her at the happy morning.  This sad-eyed, angular woman always seemed to her more like a creature out of a solemn story, or out of a stained-glass window, than an ordinary person whose comments could be offensive.  They had talked together before, and each in her own way took a serious interest in the other.

“Sister Sophia has learned to cook very nicely,” said the child, but not cheerfully.  It never seemed to her quite polite to be cheerful when she was talking to Mrs. Martha.

“Yes, child; but she can’t do everything”—­with a sigh—­“she’s put upon dreadful as it is.”  Then in a minute, “What made you think of coming here after him?”

“I think it’s so wonderful.”  The child’s eyes enlarged as she peered through the fence again at the scarlet bird.

“Lolly, child!  I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Mrs. Martha, strongly.  “He’s far above and beyond—­he’s a very holy man.”

Winifred perceived now that she was talking of old Cameron, and she thought it more polite not to explain that she had misunderstood.  Indeed, all other interests in her mind became submerged in wonder concerning the old man as thus presented.

“He’s mad, isn’t he?”