MISSY

A Novel

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "RUTLEDGE"

"THE SUTHERLANDS," "LOUIE'S LAST TERM AT ST. MARY'S," "FRANK
WARRINGTON," "RICHARD VANDERMARCK," "ST. PHILIP'S,"
"A PERFECT ADONIS," ETC., ETC., ETC.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge

Copyright, 1880,
By G. W. CARLETON & CO.

CONTENTS.

MISSY.

CHAPTER I.

YELLOWCOATS.

"I felt sure the train would be late," said Missy, sitting down on the ottoman beside the fire. "It is so disagreeable to have to wait for what you dread."

"But I think you have begun to be impatient too soon," said her mother, glancing up. "That clock is several minutes fast, and Peters always drives slower after dusk. Besides, you know he has the heavy carriage. I think it would be foolish to begin to look for them for twenty minutes yet."

"I believe you are right," said the daughter, with a sigh. "I wish it were over."

"That is natural, but we can't hurry it. We shall have twenty minutes of quiet. Come and sit down, I have hardly seen you to-day."

For the truth was, Missy had been very busy all day, getting ready for a most unwelcome guest. The pale invalid mother, to whom the guest was as unwelcome, had been obliged to lie on her sofa, without the solace of occupation.

"I hope she will like it," said Missy, irrelevantly, getting up and pushing her ottoman over to her mother's sofa, then, before sitting down, going to the table and putting a leaf of geranium in a different attitude, then stepping back and looking at it. An India bowl was filled with scarlet geranium, and the light of a low lamp fell upon it and made a beautiful patch of color.

"I might as well light the candles," she said, "and then I will sit down quietly and wait." She took a lighter, and stooping to the fire, set it ablaze, and went to some candles on the low book shelves and lighted them. "I begrudge my pretty candles," she said, turning her head to look at the effect.

"Why do you light them then?" said her mother, with a faint sigh. "Come and sit down."

"In a moment," answered Missy. "I wonder if the hall is light enough." She had looked at the hall lamps half a dozen times, but in fact she was too restless to sit down. She pulled the bell impatiently, and a tidy maid in spotless cap and apron came. She had perceived an imperfection in the adjustment of a rug, and like a wise housekeeper, she did not readjust it herself. Then she scanned the maid's costume, all with the eyes of the unwelcome guest.

"I thought that you understood me that I did not want those aprons worn again. Put on one of the new set that I gave you."

Mrs. Varian sighed; she could never at any period of life have dared to do the like, but Missy was a little dragon, and kept the servants in good order, aprons and all. The servant retired to correct her costume, and Missy began to look about for something else to correct. But the room was all in perfect order, glowing with warmth and color, delicious with the scent of flowers, there was nothing for her to do. She walked up and down before the fire, with the air of a person who objects to sitting down and having a quiet talk, at least so her mother thought.

Missy was small; her figure was perfect in its proportions; her hands and feet quite worth noticing for their beauty. She was not plump, rather slight than plump, and yet well rounded. Her head was well set on her shoulders, and she moved it deliberately, not rapidly, and while all her movements showed energy, she was not bustling. She was so petite she was not severe: that was all that saved her. Her face was not pretty, her complexion was colorless, her eyes very light, her nose retroussé. Her hair was soft and fine and waving, and of a pretty color, though not light enough to be flaxen, and not bright enough to be golden. It had the fortunate attribute of looking picturesque and pleasant, whether arranged or disarranged. Missy had her own way of dressing herself, of course. Such an energetic young woman could not be indifferent to a subject of such moment. She dressed in the best and latest fashion, with her own modification as to color and style. Her dresses were almost always gray, or white, or black, and as little trimmed as possible, and she never wore ornaments. Whether this were matter of principle or taste, she had not yet announced. Certainly if the former, virtue was its own reward; for no ornaments could have brought color to her face, or added any grace to its irregular outline, and her arms and hands would have been spoiled by rings and bracelets: every link would have hid a beauty. To-night she wore a soft gray silk, with crêpe lisse ruffles at the throat and elbows, and grey silk stockings and pretty low shoes with high heels. Putting one hand on the mantel above her, she stretched out her foot to the blaze, and resting her toe on the andiron, looked down at it attentively, though probably absently.

"I hope she will like it," she repeated.

"What, your gray stocking or your new shoe? They are both lovely," said Mrs. Varian, trying to be gay.

"No," said Missy, indignantly, withdrawing the pretty foot. "No—but it—all—the house—the place. Oh, mamma," and she went across to the sofa and threw herself in a low chair by it, "it is a trial, isn't it?"

"Yes, my child," said Mrs. Varian, with a gentle caress of the hand put out to her. "But if you do not want to alienate your brother, do not let him guess it." Missy gave an impatient movement.

"Must I try to enter into his fool's paradise? I can't be sympathetic, I'm afraid, even to retain my present modest place in his affections."

"But be reasonable, Missy. You knew he would sometime marry."

"Sometime, yes, mamma. But I cannot think of such a boy as going to be married. It really is not decorous."

"O my dear Missy. Think again. St. John is nearly twenty. It only seems absurd to us my dear, because—because—"

"Because we are so old, mamma. I know it. Yes; don't mind speaking of it. I know it very well. I am—twenty-seven." And Missy looked into the fire with a sort of dreamy wonder; but her voice showed the fact had no sting for her. Her life had been such that she did not mind it that she was no longer young. She had never been like other girls, nor had their ambitions. She had known she was not pretty; she had not expected to marry. Her life had been very full of occupation and of duty, and of things that gave her pleasure. She also had had an important position, owing to her mother's invalid condition. She was lady of the house, she was an important person; a good deal of money passed through her hands, a good many persons looked up to her. As for her heart, it was not hungry. She had a passionate love for her mother, who, since the death of her stepfather, had depended much upon her; and towards her young stepbrother, now on this October night, bringing home an unwelcome fiancée, she had felt a sort of tigerish mother love. There were seven years between them. She had always felt she owned him—and though bitterly jealous of the fond and blind devotion of her mother to him (as she saw it), she felt as if her life were inseparable from his. How could he live and love and have an existence in what she had no part? But it was even so. The boy had outgrown her, and had no longer any need of her. She had, indeed, need of all her strength and courage to-night, and the mother saw it, putting aside her own needs, which were not likely to be less. For this boy, St. John, and this daughter were all she had left her of a past not always very bright, even to remember. But with patient sweetness she sought to comfort Missy, smarting with the first knowledge that she was not necessary to some one whom she loved.

"You know we should have been prepared for it," she said. "It really is not strange—twenty is not young."

"I suppose not. But that is the very least of it. Mamma, you know this is throwing himself away. You know this is a bitter disappointment to you. You know she is the last person you would have chosen for him. You know you feel as I do, now confess it." Missy had a way of speaking vehemently, and her words tripped over each other in this speech.

"Well," said Mrs. Varian, with calm motherly justice, upholding the cause of the absent offender, while she soothed the wrath of the present offended, "I will confess, I am sorry. I am even disappointed in St. John—but that may be my fault, and not his failure. Perhaps I was unreasonable to expect more of him than of others."

"More of him? Why pray, do theological students, as a rule, engage themselves to actresses before they are half through their studies?"

"My dear Missy, I must beg of you—this is unwarrantable. You have no right to call her an actress. Not the smallest right."

"Excuse me, mamma, I think I have a right. A person who gives readings, a person whose one ambition is to be before the public, who is only detained from the stage by want of ability to be successful on it, who is an adventuress, neither more nor less, who has neither social position nor private principle, who has beauty and who means to use it—may be called an actress, without any injustice to herself, but only to the class to which she does no credit."

The words tripped over each other vehemently now.

"You are very wrong, very unwise to speak and feel so, Missy. I must beg you to control yourself, even in speaking to me. It simply is not right."

"You do not like the truth, mamma, you do not like the English language. I have spoken the truth, I have used plain language. What have I said wrong? I cannot make things according to your wishes by being silent. I can only keep them out of your sight. Is it not true that she has given readings? Not in absolute public, but as near it as she could get. Do we not know that she has made more than one effort to get on the stage? Are not she and her mother poor, and living on their wits? Is she not beautiful, and is not that all we know to her advantage? I think I have spoken the truth after all, if you will please review it."

"Very bitter truth, and not much mixture of love in it. And I think, considering that we have not seen her yet, we might suspend judgment a little, and hope the best of her."

"Perhaps share in St. John's infatuation. Oh!" and Missy laughed scornfully, while her mother's face quivered with pain as she turned it away.

"I do not think there is much danger of your seeing her with St. John's eyes, but I do think there is danger of you driving him from you, and losing all influence over him."

"I do not want any influence over him," said Missy hotly. "I never will stand between him and her. I have given him up to her; he has made his choice. Mamma, mamma, why did we get talking this way? And they may be here any minute. I made up my mind not to speak another word to you about it, and here I have got myself worked up, and my cheeks burn so."

She pressed the back of her hand against her cheek, and getting up walked two or three times across the room.

"You will be worn out before they come," she said with late compunction, noticing the tremor of her mother's hand, "and all the excitement after, and what a dreadful night you'll have. I suppose you will not sleep at all. Dear, dear, I am so sorry. And here comes Aunt Harriet. I had forgotten she asked me to call her when you were ready to come down. I suppose she will scold, and make everything wretched," and Missy moved across to open the parlor door, as if she thought life a very trying complication of worries and worse. To her relief, however, Miss Varian's rather shrill voice had more question than reproach in it as she entered the room, led by a servant.

"Do tell me if it is not time for the train?" she said. "I have been listening for the whistle for the last ten minutes. Goneril has let my clock run down, and as it is the only one in the house that can be depended on, we are in a bad way."

"That is a favorite fiction of yours, I know," said Missy, arranging a seat for her, into which Goneril backed her. "But as my watch has only varied two minutes since last July, I feel you may be reassured about the time. I can't pretend to hear a whistle four miles off, but I do think I can be trusted to tell what o'clock it is—within two minutes."

"My footstool, Goneril," said Miss Varian sharply, "and you've dropped my handkerchief."

Goneril, a good-looking woman of about forty, a superior American servant who resented her position always, and went as far as she dared to go in endangering it, stooped and picked up the handkerchief and shook it out with suppressed vehemence, and thrust it into her mistress' hand. "Is that all?" she asked, with a sort of sniff, going towards the door.

"Yes, all," said Miss Varian, in a tone that spoke volumes. Goneril indulged in another sniff, and went.

"That insufferable woman," muttered her employer, below her breath.

Missy smiled calmly, but said nothing. It always calmed her to see her step-aunt in a temper with Goneril: it gave her a feeling of superiority. She never would have endured the woman for a day, but she was quite willing her elder should, if she chose. The poor lady's blindness would have given every one a feeling of tenderness, if she had not been too sharp and petulant to permit any one to feel tender long. The position of her attendant was not one to be envied. Goneril was an American farmer's daughter, who had made a bad marriage (and the man who married her had not made altogether a good one). She had had high ambitions, as became an American farmer's daughter, and she had come down to living out at service, and what more cruel statement could be made? No worse fate could have overtaken her she was sure, and she made no secret of her estimate of domestic service for American farmer's daughters. She quarrelled incessantly with the servants of humbler nationality in the house, who did not mind it much, and who laughed a little at her proud parentage. They did not see the difference themselves. She was industrious, and capable, and vigorous, and was indispensable to Miss Varian, out of whom she wrung ever-increasing wages. Her father, the American farmer, had done handsomely by her in the matter of a name; he had called her Regan Goneril. She had grown up in the sanctity of home as Regan, but now that she was cast out into the battle of life, she preferred to be called Goneril. She also hoped to be shielded by this thin disguise from the pursuit of the discarded husband. The belief in the Varian kitchen was, that there was no danger of any such pursuit: in fact, that the husband would go very fast in the opposite direction. But she liked to talk about it, and about her goodness in putting up with Miss Varian's temper; she placed her service rather in the light of missionary work. If she did not feel it to be her duty to stay with the poor blind woman, she said, no money would induce her to remain. (It took more and more money every year, however, to stiffen and hold up her sense of duty.)

Missy took the brawls between Miss Varian and her maid, very calmly. "It gives an interest to her life," she said from a height. On this evening, occupied as she was by her own matters, she heard the story of her aunt's wrongs more indifferently than ever. And even Miss Varian soon forgot that there was anything more absorbing than the waited-for arrival.

"It may be nine o'clock before they get here," she said; "that shows the impropriety of letting a girl go off on journeys with a lover. Such things weren't done in my time. I shouldn't have thought of doing such a thing."

"You don't know; you might have thought of it, if you had ever been engaged," said Missy, with malice.

"Well, my dear, we have neither of us been tempted," retorted her aunt, urbanely. "Let us be charitable. I have no doubt we should, both of us, have been able to take care of ourselves; but it may be different with your sister elect. These very handsome women, you know, are not always wise."

"That is true," said Missy, tapping her foot impatiently as she stood before the fire. "Mamma, you don't think you'd like a cup of tea? You may have to wait a good while."

"No, thank you," said Mrs. Varian meekly.

She always wore a pained expression when her sister-in-law was present; but as the sister-in-law could not see it, it did no harm. She always dreaded the next word. They had always been uncongenial; but it is one thing to have an uncongenial sister-in-law that you can get away from, or go to see only when you are braced up to the business, and another to have her under your own roof, a prisoner, by reason of her misfortune and your sense of duty—able to prey upon you whether you are well or ill; as familiar and everyday as your dressing-gown and slippers; having no respect for your engagements or your indigestions. When this blindness threw Harriet Varian upon her hands, she felt as if her home were invaded, desecrated, spoiled, but she had not a moment's hesitation as to her duty. A frivolous youth and a worldly, pleasure-seeking maturity, had ill prepared the poor woman for her dreary doom. She had fitted herself to it with a bitter philosophy; for do we not all fit ourselves to our lot, in one way or another. "L'homme est en délire s'il ose murmurer," but it is to be hoped Heaven is not always critical in the matter of resignation. Harriet Varian had submitted, but she was in the primer of Christian principle, as it were; attaining with difficulty in middle age the lesson that would have been easy to her, if she had begun in childhood. When you have spent thirty-four years in having your own way, and consulting your own pleasure quite exclusively, it comes a trifle hard to do exactly as you do not wish to do, and to find that pleasure is a term unknown in your vocabulary: when you are old that another should gird you and lead you whither you would not.

But the healthy and Christian surroundings of the home to which she came were not without their influence. Mrs. Varian's sweet endurance of her life-long suffering, St. John's healthy goodness, and Missy's vigorous duty-doing, helped her, against her will. St. John was her great object of interest in life. All her money was to go to him, and she actually felt compensated for her dull and restricted existence, sometimes, when she reflected that it swelled, by so many thousand a year, the fortune that would be his. She had not lost her interest in the world, since she had him to connect her with it, and to give her an excuse for the indulgence of ambition. Of course she had been bitterly set against all the system upon which he had been educated, and would have thwarted it if she had had the power. His entering the church had been a great trial to her, but she openly said it was his mother's plan, and no wish of his, and before he was ordained he would be old enough to see the folly of it, and to get clear of it. Then came his engagement, and at this she was wroth indeed, but as it furnished her with liberal weapons against his disappointed mother, she found her own comfort in it. Now she hoped Dorla would see the folly of her course; now she could understand what other people had known all along: simply that she was keeping him in a false and unhealthy state of religious feeling, that she had forced upon him duties and aspirations all her own and none of his; that there had come a reaction, that there was a flat failure when he came to see even a corner of the world from which she had debarred him. Here he was, carried away by his infatuation for a woman whom he would have been too wise to choose if his mother had not tried to make a monk of him, and to keep him as guileless and ignorant as a girl. Here he was bound to a woman who would ruin his career, spoil his life for him, spend his money, disgrace his name; and it was "all the work of his mother." These were some of the amenities of the family life at Yellowcoats. These were the certain truths that were spoken of and to Mrs. Varian by her candid and unprejudiced sister-in-law.

And there was too much fact in them to be borne as Harriet's criticisms were generally borne by Mrs. Varian. Perhaps it was all true, she said to herself in the morning watches, as the stars grew pale; but of all the failures of her life this was the bitterest. How many hopes, and how high, were centered in her boy! She had dreamed for him, she had schemed for him, she had seen her life retrieved in him. A career, in which earthly ambition had no part, she had planned for him, and into its beginning she had led him. He had been so easily guided, he was so good, he loved her so; had it all been a mistake? could it be all delusion? If he had been headstrong, a willful, rebellious boy, it never could have been. But to have bound him with his own lovingness, to have slain him with his own sweetness, this was a cruel thought. Why had no voice called to her from heaven to warn her of it; why was she left to think she was doing the very best for him, when she was truly acting as the enemy who sought his life? She had led him up such a steep and giddy path, that the first glance downward of his young, untutored eyes, sent him reeling to the bottom. Why had God suffered this? God, who loved him and her. She had thought that she had, long ago, accepted God's will in all and for all, and owned it sweetest and best. But this opened her eyes sadly to her self-deception. She could not abandon herself to a will that seemed to have put a sword into her hand, by which she had wounded her child unwittingly, thinking that she did God service. She could have borne mistake and misconception for herself, but that her boy should bear the penalty seemed, even to her humbled will, a bitter punishment. The future was all too plain, even without her sister-in-law's interpretation. Yes, St. John's career was spoiled. If he entered the church at all, having made such a connection, it would be but to lead a half-way, feeble life, and to bring discredit on his faith. If he gave it up, there was nothing before him but a life of ease with a large fortune and a natural tendency to indolence. It was not in him to think of another profession and to make an interest and an aim to himself other than the one that he had had from childhood. His mother knew him too well to believe that possible. Humanly speaking, St. John Varian had lost his best chance of distinction when he gave his fate into the keeping of this beautiful adventuress. He might have been what he was brought up to be; he would never be anything else.

"Think of it," said Miss Varian, tapping her fan sharply on the arm of her chair, as she talked, "think of it. I suppose that woman isn't coming with her daughter, because she hasn't clothes to come in. I suppose every cent has been expended on the girl, and the summer's campaign has run them deep in debt. No doubt that poor boy will have to pay for the powder and balls that shot him, by and bye. Not post-obit, but post-matrimonium. Ha, ha! I don't know which is worse. To think of his being such a fool. Why, at his age his father was a man of the world. He could have been trusted not to be caught by the first woman that angled for him. But then, mamma was always resolute with him and made him understand something of life, and rely upon himself. He was never coddled. I don't think I ever remember Felix when he couldn't take care of himself."

Missy had not loved her stepfather, and this comparison enraged her (though not by its novelty). Naturally, she could not look for sympathy to her mother, who had been devoted to her husband. So she had to bite her lips and keep time with her foot upon the tiles, to Miss Varian's fan upon the arm chair.

"There!" exclaimed the latter at this exasperating juncture. "There, I hear the whistle." No one else heard it of course, but no one ventured to dispute the correctness of the blind woman's wonderful hearing.

"Half an hour at least to wait," exclaimed Missy, almost crying as she flung herself into a chair. "And Peters will drive his slowest, and the tea will all be ruined. What can have kept the train so late." Mrs. Varian pressed her hand before her eyes. It seemed to her that another half hour of this fret and suspense would be worse than a calamity. But she had gone further in her matter than the vehement souls who bemoaned themselves beside her—she could be silent.

"I shall go and walk up and down on the piazza," said Missy, starting up, "I long for the fresh air."

Mrs. Varian looked appealing towards her, but she did not see it; and throwing a cloak over her shoulders, she went out on the piazza. It was a cool, clear October night; there was no moon, but there were hosts of stars, which she could dimly see through the great trees not yet bare of foliage, though the lawn was strewn with leaves. The air cooled and rested her; but her thoughts were still a trifle bloodthirsty.

"Poor mamma," she said to herself, glancing through the window, as she walked quickly to and fro, "poor mamma. If she could only come out and walk, and feel the fresh air on her face, and get away from Aunt Harriet. I believe I was contemptible to come away and leave her. I can see Aunt Harriet is saying something dreadful, from mamma's expression. I wish I could kill her." Missy allowed herself to think in highly colored language. She had so often said to herself that she would like to strangle Aunt Harriet, to drown her with her own hands, to hang her, that she had omitted to perceive that it wasn't altogether right. She stood at the window looking in, holding her cloak together with one hand, and with the other holding up her dress from the floor of the piazza, which was wet with dew. So she had no hand left to clench as she looked at her; but she set her teeth together vindictively and knit her brow.

"If ever there was a wicked woman!" she exclaimed below her breath. She certainly wasn't a handsome woman, as Missy looked at her, sitting in rather a stiff chair by the fire-place, with her feet on a stool. She was heavily built, and her clothes were put on awkwardly, as if they did not belong to her, or had not been put on by her. She was nodding her head in a peremptory way as she said the thing that Missy was sure was distressing her mother. Then Missy watched while her mother, with a look of more open suffering than was usual with her, leaned her head back upon the pillows, and pressed her hands silently together. "How pretty she is, poor mamma," she thought. "Every one admires her, though she is so faded and suffering. Beauty is a great gift," and then she began slowly to walk up and down, gazing in at the windows as she passed them, and looking at the picture framed by the hangings within. The light of the fire and the light of the lamp both fell on the reclining figure of her mother. Her face had resumed its ordinary quiet, and her graceful white hands were lying unclasped on the rich shawl spread over her. Her face was still beautiful in outline; her hair was brown and soft; there was something pathetic in her eyes. She was graceful, refined and elegant, the sort of woman that men always serve with alacrity and a shade of chivalry, even when she is faded and no longer young. She was dependent and not particularly practical; but there were always plenty to take care of her, and to do the part of life for which she was unfitted. If a woman can't take care of herself, there are generally enough ready to do it for her.

CHAPTER II.

ST. JOHN.

"There is the carriage!" exclaimed Missy, as she caught the sound of wheels in the distance. She darted into the house, her heart beating with violence. "Mamma, I believe they are coming," she said with forced calmness, as she went into the parlor, shaking out the fringe of the shawl across her mother's lap, and straightening the foot-stool. "Aunt Harriet, do let me move your chair a little back. Goneril's one idea seems to be to put it always as much in the way as possible."

"Don't scold," said Miss Varian, tartly. "Your new sister may take a prejudice against you."

Missy disdained to answer, but occupied herself with putting on the fire some choice pine knots which she had been reserving for this moment. They blazed up with effusion; the room was beautiful. The carriage wheels drew nearer; they were before the house. Missy threw open the parlor door and advanced into the hall, with a very firm step, but with a very weak heart. She knew her hands were cold and that they trembled. How could she keep this from the knowledge of her guest; it was all very well to walk forward under the crystal lamps, as if she were a queen. But queens arrange to keep their hands from shaking, and to command their voices.

The maid had already gone out to the steps to bring in the shawls and bags. Everything seemed to swim before Missy as she stood in the hall door. The light went out in a flood across the piazza, but there seemed to be darkness beyond, about the carriage. There was no murmur of voices. Missy in bewilderment saw her brother, and then the maid coming up the steps after him and carrying nothing. In her agitation she hardly looked at him, as, at the door, he stooped down and kissed her, passing on. But the touch of his hand was light and cold.

"You have no wraps, or bags, or anything," she said confusedly, following him.

"No," he said, in a forced voice, throwing his hat on a table as he passed it, and going towards the stairs. "Is mamma in her room?"

"No, in the parlor waiting for you."

A contraction passed across his face as he turned toward the open parlor door, from which such a light came. He went in, however, quickly, and hurried to his mother's sofa. She had half raised herself from it, and with an agitated face looked up at him.

"You are—alone—St. John?"

"I am alone, mamma," he said in a strained, unnatural voice, stooping to embrace her.

Miss Varian had caught the scent of trouble and was standing up beside her chair.

"Aunt Harriet," he said, as if he had forgotten her, going over to her and kissing her.

"You are late," she said, as he turned away.

"Am I?" he said, looking at his watch, but very much as if he did not see it. "Yes, I suppose so. There was an accident or something on the road. The days are growing short. I am afraid I have kept you waiting."

Then he walked restlessly up and down the room, and took up and laid down a book upon the table, and spoke to a dog that came whisking about his feet, but in a way that showed that the book and the dog had not either entered into his mind.

"I will go and see about tea," said Missy, faintly, glad to get away. St. John's face frightened her. He looked ten years older. He was pallid. There was a most affecting look of suffering about his mouth. His eyes were strange to her; they were absolutely unlike her brother's eyes. What could it all mean? What had befallen him? She felt as if they were all in a dream. She hurried into the dining-room, where the waitress was whispering with gesticulation to the cook and laundress, whose faces appeared in the further door full of curiosity. Her presence put them to flight; the waitress, much humbled, bestirred herself to obey Missy's orders and remove the unneeded plate and chair, and to make the table look as if it were not intended for more than would sit down to it. How large it looked; Missy was so sorry that extra leaf had been put in. And all the best china, and the silver that was not used every day. What a glare and glitter they made; she hated the sight of them; she knew they would give St. John a stab. She would have taken some off the table, but that she felt the demure waitress would make a note of it. She had patiently to see her lighting the candles in the sconces. Poor St. John's eyes would ache at so much light. But there was no help for it now.

"Put tea upon the table at once," said Missy, sharply. There was no relief for her but scolding the innocent maid, and no one could have the heart to deny her that, if it would do her any good.

In a few moments the tea was served, and Missy went to announce it herself. Things were not altered in the parlor. St. John and his aunt were trying to talk in a way that would not convict the one of a broken heart, and the other of a consuming curiosity. Mrs. Varian, very pale, was leaning her head back on the pillows, and not speaking or looking at them.

"Mamma, tea is ready," said Missy, coming in. "St. John, take Aunt Harriet. Mamma will come with me."

"I think you may send me in a cup of tea," said Mrs. Varian. "I am almost too tired to go into the dining-room."

"Very well; that will be best. I will send Anne to wait upon you."

So the party of three went into the brilliantly-lighted dining-room, and sat down at the table that had been laid for five. Perhaps St. John didn't see anything but the light; that hurt his eyes, for he put his hand up once or twice to shield them. It was a ghastly feast. Aunt Harriet talked fast and much. St. John could not follow her enough to answer her with any show of sense. Missy blundered about the sugar in the two cups of tea she made, and tried to speak in her ordinary tone, but in vain. St. John sent oysters twice to his aunt, and not at all to Missy, and when the servant brought him her plate he said, what? and put it down before himself, and went on pouring cream into his tea, though he had done it twice before.

"No matter," said Missy sharply, to the girl, who could not make him understand, and who looked inclined to titter. She did not want the oysters, but she longed to see the poor fellow eat something himself, and she watched him furtively from behind the urn. He took everything upon his plate that was brought to him, but the physical effort of eating seemed impossible to him. He could not even drink the tea, which Missy had quietly renewed since the deluge of cream.

The excitement had even affected Miss Varian's appetite; she found fault with the rolls. This was a comfort to Missy, and restored to her the feeling that the world was on its time-honored route, notwithstanding her brother's troubles. At last it was impossible to watch it any longer. He was sitting unevenly at the head of the table, with his profile almost turned to her—as if he were ready to go away, ah, too ready!—if he could get away. His untouched plate was pushed back.

"St. John," said Missy, "do you want to take this cup of tea in to mamma, or shall Rosa go with it?"

"I will take it," he said, with an eager movement, getting up. The tears rushed into Missy's eyes as she watched him going out of the door with the cup of tea in his unsteady hand. Then she heard the parlor door shut, as Anne came out and left the mother and son together. Missy could fancy the eager, tender words, the outburst of wretchedness. Her own heart ached unutterably. "As one whom his mother comforteth." Oh, that he might be comforted, even though she was shut out, and could not help him, and her help was not thought of. It was her first approach to great trouble since she had been old enough to feel it intelligibly. How happy we have been, she thought, as people always think; how smooth and sweet our life has flowed; and now it is turned all out of its course, and will never be the same again. It was a life-and-death matter, even though no one wore a shroud, and no sod was broken; the smooth, happy boy's face was gone. She would never look on it again, and she had loved it so. She thought of him as he had been, only two months ago, when he went away, easy, frank, happy, good. Everybody loved him. It was the fashion to be fond of him, and it did not seem to hurt him. Missy thought of his beauty, his fine proportions, his look of perfect health. "Like as a moth fretting a garment," this trouble had already begun. His harassed features, his sallow tint—why, it was like a dream. Poor St. John! the only thing his sister had had to reproach him with had been his boyishness, and that was over and done. He had not the regularity of feature that had made his father remarkable for beauty, but he had the same warm coloring, the deep blue eye, the fair yellow hair. He was larger, too, than his father—a broad-shouldered, six-foot fellow, who had been grown on the sunny side of the wall. About his brain power there was a difference of opinion, as there will be about undeveloped resources. His mother's judgment did not count; his aunt thought him unusually clever for his age. Missy looked upon him as doubtfully average. His masters loved him, and thought there might be a good deal in him, if it could be waked up (but it hadn't been); his comrades thought him a good fellow, but were sure he wouldn't set the sea on fire. The men about the village, oyster men and stable boys, sailors of sloops and tillers of soil, were all ready, to a man, to bet upon him, whatever he might undertake. And here he was, not twenty yet, a boy whom fortune had seemed to agree should be left to ripen to utmost slow perfection, suddenly shaken with a blast of ice and fire, and called upon to show cause why more time should be given him to develop the powers within him, and to meet the inherent cruelty of life. It was precipitate and cruel; and the sister's heart cried out against it.

What was the mother's heart crying out? Missy yearned to know. But here was, no one knew how much time to pass before she could see her mother. Her duty now was to keep Aunt Harriet away from them, and to hold her in check. And this was not easy. Freed from the restraint of St. John's presence, Miss Varian's anxiety showed itself in irritability. She found fault with everything, and soon brought her tea to an end. Then she called for Goneril to take her to the parlor. While Rosa went for Goneril, Missy said, firmly:

"Wait a few minutes, Aunt Harriet. I am sure St. John wants to see mamma alone a little while."

Then Miss Varian gave way to a very bad fit of temper, only stopped by the re-entrance of the servant. It was gall to her to think that his mother could only comfort him, and that she had no place. But she respected the decencies of life enough not to betray herself before the servants. So while Missy busied herself in putting away the cake, and locking up the tea caddy, she sat silent, listening eagerly for any sound or movement in the parlor.

"If I had the evening paper, I would read it to you," said Missy, having come to the end of her invented business. "Rosa, go and look in the hall for it."

"It is on the parlor table, miss."

"Well, no matter then; tell the cook to come here. I want to read her a receipt for soup to-morrow."

The receipt book was the only bit of literature in the dining-room, so the cook came, and Missy read her the receipt for the new soup, and then another receipt that had fallen into desuetude, and might be revived with benefit to the ménage. And then she gave her orders for breakfast, and charged the cook with a message for the clam man and the scallop man, and the man who brought fish. For at Yellowcoats every man brings the captive of his own bow and spear (or drag and net), and the man who wooes oysters never vends fish; and the man who digs clams, digs clams and never potatoes; and scallops are a distinct calling.

All this time Missy was listening, with intent ear, for some movement in the parlor, Miss Varian listening no less intently. The tea-table was cleared—the cook could be detained no longer with any show of reason; the waitress waited to know if there was anything she could bring Miss Rothermel. It was so very unusual for any one to sit in the dining-room after tea; there were no books in it, nor any easy chairs, nor anything to do. The waitress, being a creature of habit, was quite disturbed to see them stay, but she knew very well what it meant.

At last! There was a movement across the hall—the parlor door opened, and they heard St. John and his mother come out and go slowly up the stairs. When they were on the first landing, Miss Varian said, sharply,

"Well, I suppose we can be released now."

"Yes, I think it will be as pleasant in the parlor," said Missy, giving her arm to Miss Varian, and going forward with a firm step. She installed her companion in an easy chair, seated herself, and read aloud the evening paper. Politics, fashions, marriages, and deaths, what a senseless jumble they made in her mind. She was often called sharply to account for betraying the jumble in her tone, for Miss Varian had recovered herself enough to feel an interest in the paper, while she felt sure she should have no tidings of St. John's trouble that night. It was easy to see nothing would be told her till it was officially discussed, with Missy in council, and till it was decided how much and what she was to hear. So she resolved to revenge herself by keeping Missy out of it as long as she could. The paper, to the last personal, had to be read. And then she found it necessary to have two or three notes written. Goneril was no scribe, so Missy was always expected to write her notes for her, which she always did, filled with a proud consciousness of being pretty good to do it, for somebody who wasn't her aunt, and who was her enemy. Aunt Harriet had always a good many notes to write; she never could get over the habit of wanting things her own way, and to have your own way, even about the covering of a footstool, requires sometimes the writing of a good many little notes; the looking up of a good many addresses, the putting on of a good many stamps, the sending a good many times to the post-office. All these things Missy generally did with outward precision and perfection. But to-night her hand shook, her mind wandered, she made mighty errors, and blotted and crossed out and misdirected like an ordinary mortal in a state of agitation. It was not lost upon Miss Varian, who heard the pen scratching through a dozen words at a time.

"Anything but an erasure in writing to such a person as Mrs. Olor, and particularly about a matter such as this. If you can't put your mind on it to-night, I'd rather you'd leave it till to-morrow."

"I haven't found any difficulty in putting my mind on it," said Missy. "If you could give me a lucid sentence, I think I could write it out. I believe I have done it before." So she tore up the letter, her cheeks burning, and began a fresh one.

All this time she listened for the sounds overhead. Sometimes it would be silent, of course they could not hear the sound of voices—sometimes for five minutes together there would be the sound of St. John's tread as he walked backward and forward the length of the room. Eleven o'clock came.

"I am going to bed," said Missy, pushing away the writing things. "I will finish your business in the morning. Shall I ring for Goneril?"

While Goneril was coming, Missy put out the lamp, and gathered up her books. When she had gone up and shut herself into her room, she began to cry. The two hours' strain upon her nerves, in keeping up before Miss Varian, had been great; then the suspense and pity for St. John; and not least, the feeling that she was forgotten and outside of all he suffered, and her mother knew. Mamma could have called me, even if St. John had not remembered, she thought bitterly. By and bye she heard her mother's door open and her brother's step cross the hall, and stealing out she looked after him down the stairs. He walked once or twice up and down the lower hall, then taking up his hat, went out, and she heard his step on the gravel walk that led down to the beach gate. Then she felt a great longing to go into her mother's room, and hear all. But an obstinate jealous pride kept her back. She lingered near the open door of her room till Anne the maid went into her mother's room, and after a few moments came out.

"Did mamma ask for me?" she said, as the woman passed her door.

"No, miss. She told me she did not want anything, that I was to leave the light, and that all were to go to bed."

Then Missy shut her door, and dried her tears, or rather they dried away before the hot fire of her hurt feelings. St. John's trouble, whatever it was, began to grow less to her. At least he had his mother, if he had lost his love; and mother to her had always been more than any love. And then, he had had the fulness of life, he had had an experience; he had lived more than she had, though he was but twenty, and she was twenty-seven. She was angry, humbled, wounded. Poor Missy; and then she hated herself for it, and knew that she ought to be crying for St. John, instead of envying him his mother's heart. It is detestable to find yourself falling below the occasion, and Missy knew that was just what she was doing. She was thinking about herself and her own wounds and wants, and she should have been filled with the sorrow of her brother. Well, so she would have been if he had asked her. She was sure she would have given him her whole heart, if he had wanted it. This was destined to be a night of suspenses. Missy undressed herself, and put on a wrapper, and said her very tumultuous and fragmentary evening prayers, and read a chapter in one or two good books, without the least understanding, and then put her light behind a screen in the corner, and went to the window, and began to wonder why St. John did not come back. The night was clear and starlight, but there was no moon, and it looked dark as she gazed out. She could see a light or two twinkling out on the bay, at the mast of some sloop or yacht. An hour passed. She walked about her room, in growing uneasiness, and opened her door softly, wondering if her mother shared her watch, and with what feelings. Another half hour, and it truly seemed to her, unused to such excitements, that she could bear it no longer. Where could he be, what could it mean? All the jealousy was over before this time, and she would have gone quickly enough to her mother, but that the silence in her room, made her fear to disturb her, and to give her a sleepless night. At last, just as the hands of her little watch reached two, she heard a movement of the latch of the beach gate, and her brother's step coming up the path. She flew down to the door of the summer parlor and opened it for him. There was only a faint light coming from the hall. He did not speak, and she followed him across the parlor, into the hall. "Where have you been?" she said humbly, "I have been so worried."

But when she got into the hall under the light, she uttered a little scream, "St. John! You are all wet, look at your feet."

The polished floor was marked with every step.

"It is nothing," he said hoarsely, going towards the stairs.

"Is mamma's light burning?"

"You are not going to mamma's room," said Missy, earnestly, "at this hour of the night? You might make her very ill. I think you are very inconsiderate."

There came into his eyes for a moment a hungry, evil look. He looked at Missy as if he could have killed her.

"Then tell her why I didn't come," he said in an unnatural voice, taking a candle from her hand, and going up the stairs, shut himself into his own room.

Poor Missy was frightened. She wished she had let him go to his mother; as the light of the lamp fell on his face, it was dreadful. His clear blue eyes, with their dark lashes, had always looked at her with feelings that she could interpret. She had seen him angry—a short-lived, sudden anger, that had melted while you looked, but never malicious; but this was malice, despair. The habitual expression of his eye was soft, happy, bright; a good nature looking out. She did not think he had lost his mind; she only thought he might be losing his soul. His eyes were bloodshot, his face of such a dreadful color.

"This is trouble," she said to herself, as with trembling hands she put out the light, and went up the dark staircase. At her mother's door she paused and listened, and a voice within called her. How gladly she heard it! She went in, longing to throw herself into her mother's arms and cry what is it? But she controlled herself, and went softly to the sofa where her mother lay, still undressed, the lamp burning on the table beside her, her eyes shining with an unusual lustre.

"I didn't know you were awake," said Missy, sitting down on an ottoman by the fire. "Your room is cold," and she pulled together the embers, and put on a stick or two of wood, her teeth chattering. She knew quite well it wasn't the cold that made them chatter.

"Where is St. John?" said her mother.

"He has just come in," returned Missy, looking furtively at her—"and has gone to bed."

"Why didn't he come in to me?" asked Mrs. Varian, anxiously.

"Because I thought that it—it was so late—you ought not to be kept awake so long."

"Did you tell him not to come?"

"Well, yes."

Mrs. Varian sighed. "It would have been better not," she said.

Missy turned her face to the fire, which was beginning to blaze, and stretched out her hands to it. "Well, mamma," she said a little querulously, after several moments of silence, "I suppose you don't think that I care anything about St. John's trouble. I should think you might tell me without being asked to."

"O my child!" exclaimed her mother. "Forgive me. I have been so absorbed in him."

"O, I know that," retorted Missy, crying a little. "That isn't what I want to know."

"It won't take long to tell you. The girl to whom he was engaged, has fled from him and from her mother, and last night was married privately to a man for whom, it seems, she has long had a passion."

"Then why did she ever engage herself to St. John?" cried Missy, turning her pale and excited face towards her mother.

"I suppose it was the mother's work. The mother must be unscrupulous and daring. No doubt she worked hard for such a prize as St. John, and she found him easy prey, poor boy. Easier to manage than her daughter, whose passions are strong, and whose will is undisciplined. The girl could not conquer the thought of the old lover, though she had dissembled cruelly. I think she is but little to be preferred to her mother, inasmuch as her intention was the same; she meant to sacrifice St. John, and to satisfy her ambition. Only at the last moment, her passion conquered, and she broke faith both with her mother and him. O Missy, what wicked, wicked lives! Does it seem possible that there can be such women living?"

"I thank them from the bottom of my heart," said Missy, from between her set teeth.

"Yes," said her mother with a sigh. "It is right to feel that, I know. But oh, my boy; it is so hard to see him suffer. To have loved so, and been so duped. And he cannot, in his disgust and revulsion, conquer his great love for her. He is writhing in such pangs of jealousy. Think, last night this time he was dreaming happy dreams about her, as foolish and as fond as boy could be. To-night, she is in the arms of another—separated from him forever—leaving him with mockery and coldness, without a word of penitence or supplication. She flung him off as if she had disdained and loathed him."

"How did it come out—how did he hear it first?"

"This morning, he went for her to drive. They were to have had a very happy day. St. John, you know, is so nice and thoughtful about planning pleasures and expeditions. I think he must have had an insight into their characters, though he was so blinded. First, they were to go to see some pictures, then to the Park for an hour or two, then to Delmonico's for an early dinner; then to do some shopping before coming to the cars. The shopping meant letting her choose all sorts of expensive things to wear, to which she was unaccustomed, while he paid the bills. Poor boy, think of that not opening his eyes. I asked if she never remonstrated, 'Yes, a little perhaps, at first.' Well, they were to have had this perfect day; and St. John mounted the stairs to their apartment without a misgiving.

"The moment the door was opened he felt what was coming. The room was in confusion; the mother, wild and dishevelled, turned from him with a shriek. It took but a moment, but it was a horrible moment, to persuade her to tell him the truth.

"'Yes,' she cried, with a sudden impulse—perhaps it was the first honest word she had ever spoken to the poor boy—'Yes, you shall know everything. You shall know all that I know. There is no good in keeping things back now. She has gone; she is a deceitful, bad girl. She has left me to poverty and you to misery. She has gone off with a wicked man, a man who destroyed her sister, and left her, but whom she has always loved. She has broken her promise to me—she has deceived me, she has ruined me. What shall I do! how shall I pay her bills! I shall have to hide myself; and I thought I had got through with being poor! She promised me, she promised me to bear with you and to carry this out. Everything hung upon it, every one was waiting—the landlord, the grocer even knew that she was going to make a fine match, and they were waiting. I had to explain it all to them. You can't think how like heaven it seemed to have a prospect of easy times. I have had a hard life, a hard life, ever since I can remember. How I have worked for that girl, and for her sister before her—what sacrifices I have made! You can't think, a man can't know. I really enjoy telling the truth; it's such a long time since I've done it. Making the best of things—making out that things were one way with us when they were another—telling lies to every body—almost to each other! Oh, what shall I do without her! I don't know where to go or which way to turn! She is a wicked girl to have served me such a trick. She will be come up with yet. She will hate that man—hate him worse than she hated you. Nobody could say you were not sweet and nice to every one, even if you were too young. And he—he is an evil, deep, bad man. He will break her heart for her, as he broke her sister's. And he hasn't got a penny. And she, oh! she has a fury of a temper, and she must have her own way if she dies for it. Well, she's got it, and I almost hope she will be punished. I'd like to see her poor as poverty, and come begging to the door.'

"And so on, Missy, in her wretched, selfish moan of disappointed greed, while the poor boy stood stunned and almost stupefied. It did not seem to him at all real or true; he felt as if he must wake up from it; for the girl had been a good actress; and the mother, though he had always felt a little uncomfortable with her, had simulated the manners of a lady, and his refined tastes never had been shocked; at least never with force enough to break the spell of the daughter's influence. Fancy what this revelation was to him; the woman, in her transport of anger, and in her despair of further help from him, tearing away their flimsy hypocrisies, and revealing their disgusting meanness. It all seemed hideous raving to St. John, till she thrust into his hand the letter that the girl had left. Then the sight of the handwriting that had always given him such emotions, and the cruel words, made an end of his dream, and he was quite awake."

"What did she write?" asked Missy.

"That he has not told me. He cannot seem to bring himself to speak the words. But I gather from him, it was a vehement protestation of what she felt for her old lover, and the contempt in which she held the poor boy, and perhaps some rude defiance of her mother. St. John, I think, could hardly have spoken many words during the interview. He emptied his pockets, poor boy, and left the wretched woman silent with amazement. She may well have repented of her reckless speech—how much she might have got out of him, if she had still played the hypocrite. He came down the stairs which half an hour before he had mounted, weak, like a person after months of illness. When he got into the carriage, his eyes fell on some lovely flowers which he had brought for her, and the sight and scent of them seemed to make clear the horrible reality. I think he really cannot tell what he did with the rest of the day. He told the man to drive to the Park, and there he wandered about, no doubt, for hours. I am sure he has not tasted food since morning. It must result in a terrible illness. How did he look, Missy, when he came in from the beach?"

Missy evaded; and her heart smote her that she had not brought the poor boy to his mother, instead of turning him away from the only chance of comfort. "Shall I go and see?" she said. And going softly into the hall, she stood outside the door of his room and listened. "It is all quiet," she said, coming back. "Perhaps he has fallen asleep. He looked utterly worn out when he came in." Then she crept up beside her mother, and pulling a shawl about her, they sat talking, hand in hand, till the stars grew pale, and the chilly dawn broke.

CHAPTER III.

THE FIRST SERMON.

It was Sunday afternoon, a year and a half after this, and St. John had just been preaching his first sermon. Missy's dream of happiness was realized, and her brother was called to Yellowcoats parish—called before he was ordained; and for three months the parish had been waiting patiently for that event, and living upon "supplies." St. John had not wished to come to Yellowcoats, his mother had not wholly desired it, but the fire and force of Missy's will had conquered, and here he was.

"I think it's a mistake," St. John had said. "Half the congregation will think I ought to be playing marbles yet, and wearing knickerbockers. Besides, it isn't the kind of work I want."

Then his mother had admitted, that it would be a great happiness to have him with her; and Missy had presented to his conscience, in many forms, that place and surroundings were indications of duty. It was not for nothing that he had been born and brought up at Yellowcoats; that there he had family influence, and knowledge of the people with whom he was to deal. Was it not his home? Did he owe any other place as much? And was it nothing that a vacancy had occurred just as he was ready to come?

"All the same, I doubt if it is well," he said, and came; for he was young and not self-willed, and the kind of work he wanted had not come before him. He consented to come and try. "But remember, Missy, I do not promise you to stay."

Upon one thing he was firm, he would not live at home. The rectory was in tolerable order, and there he was to live, with one servant. He never would be happy unless he were uncomfortable, said his sister; nevertheless, she liked him better for it.

St. John was changed, very deeply changed, since that October night, a year and a half ago; but he had come to be again sweet-natured and natural, and they loved him more than ever at home. He had grown silent, and never got back his young looks again. He had thrown himself into his studies with great earnestness, and had worked, perhaps, more than was quite wise. Lent was just over, and his ordination; and he was naturally a little wan and weary from it; but after preaching that first sermon, there was a flush upon his cheek. The bishop had been there in the morning, and had preached; in the afternoon, he had had no one with him, and had taken all the duty. He was alone with his people, and was fairly launched. It had been well known that he was going to preach, and the church was very full. Perhaps speculation about the knickerbockers and the marbles had brought some. Perhaps affection and real interest in their young townsman had brought others. All the "denominations" were amply represented, and all the young women of the village who had smart spring bonnets, wore them, and came with their young men. In short, it was more like a funeral than an ordinary afternoon service; for a funeral in Yellowcoats was an improved occasion always. The church building was a very poor affair, shabby in detail as well as ungainly in plan, but it was well situated, in the midst of shade, with an old graveyard on one side, and the road that led to the door of the rectory, fifty feet back, on the other, and beyond some green grass and trees there were sheds for horses. The windows were of clear diamond-shaped glass, so that when the rattling old shades were rolled up, one saw lovely glimpses of the bay, and some green fields, and nearer, the delicate young green of the locust trees that stood thick in the inclosure. One could always look heaven-ward and sea-ward out of the windows of Yellowcoats church, and that was the only advantage it presented as a building.

Lent had come late that year; and the spring had come early. The air was soft and sweet, the verdure more advanced than is usual for the last of April. The earth was still sodden and wet, though the spring sun was shining warmly on it. The crocuses were peeping up about the stones of the foundation, and in the grass the Star of Bethlehem and the periwinkle were in blossom. The locusts, with their thin, high-up foliage, were just a faint green, their rough bark rusty from the winter's storms.

It is rather an ordeal to hear one's brother preach his first sermon, particularly if he is a younger brother, and one has more solicitude for his success, than confidence in it. Missy's heart beat furiously while he said the prayers—she very much wished he hadn't come to Yellowcoats. His voice soothed her; there was no indication in it that his heart was beating with irregularity. But then would dart in the thought of the coming sermon, and the trepidation would return. There was one thing to be thankful for, and that was, that mamma was not there. And when the sermon came, she scarcely heard the text; it was several minutes before she heard anything. By and by she got steadied by something in his voice and manner, not probably in the words. And after that, she renounced solicitude and assumed confidence. Yes, she need not be afraid for St. John. Though there was nothing wonderful in the sermon. The congregation had heard many a better, probably. But while it was simple, it was not trite. It was thought out, and definite, and well-expressed. The Rev. Dr. Platitude would have made three out of it, and thought himself extravagant. But what was it that held the people so silent, that made them follow him so? For Missy would have heard a leaf turned six pews off; would have felt it through and through her if a distant neighbor had even buttoned up her glove. No; nobody was turning pages, or buttoning gloves, or thinking of spring bonnets. St. John had them in his hand; they were his while he chose to hold them. There was an utter simplicity about him; an absence of speculation about himself. Missy looked at him and wondered if it were indeed her brother. There was a deep light in his eyes, that one sometimes sees in blue eyes; there was a faint flush on his cheek; there was a steady look about his mouth. It began to dawn on Missy that he was going to be one of those men who are to preach from their hearts as well as from their brains; who are to bring out from their own soul's labor, food for the hungry souls about them. She began to feel that St. John's sermon had come somehow from the weary Lent that was just ended; from the hard pressure of the past eighteen months; from the cruel wound that had seemed to find his very life. But what were the people crying about? Heaven knows. For they had heard many sermons before, and been like the pebbles on the shore for hardness and rattling indifference. And they did cry, though St. John did not; but his eyes were deep and earnest.

"Mamma," exclaimed Missy, throwing herself down by her mother's sofa, and hiding her face on her shoulder—"it was like Paradise—all the people cried."

"I didn't suppose they did that in Paradise."

"Oh, you know what I mean. It was like Paradise to me to see them cry. At any rate, you needn't have any fear about St. John."

"I never had any fear of him, that way," said the mother, quietly.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR.

It was a lovely July afternoon, and at five o'clock Missy had taken her work and a book down to the beach-gate, and sat there rather idly reading, while the tide, which was only a few feet away from her, was breaking on the pebbles with a sound that is dead against serious mental application. There was a drowsy hum of insects in the air, a faint whispering in the trees overhead. She took off the light hat that shaded her face, and threw it on the grass, and leaning back in the high-backed cane chair, thought what a comfort not to be in a hurry about anything. She was delicately and coolly dressed, just fresh from a bath and a sleep. Life seemed luxurious at that moment. She watched a sail-boat, almost as idle as she was herself, lolling across the bay, the faint west wind coming in light puffs that gave it but little impetus. Presently the plash of oars aroused her, and turning her head she saw St. John pulling up to the beach.

"Ah, that's nice!" she cried. "You've come to tea."

"Well, yes, but it is not tea time yet."

"Not for an hour and a half. This is very self-indulgent, coming home to tea twice in one week. I am afraid Bridget hasn't got the receipt for muffins quite through her head yet."

"Yes, Bridget does very well. I wish every one did as well as Bridget. Myself, for instance."

"Oh, nonsense; now you're moping again."

"No, I am not. Nothing as excusable as that. But I'm lazy. How can any one keep from getting that in this place, I should like to know?"

"I don't know why this place must bear the blame of all one's moods," said Missy, much annoyed. "I don't get lazy here."

"But you see I do."

"Maybe you'd do that anywhere."

"I'll put myself where I sha'n't have any more chance to be lazy than a car horse; where it won't be a question of whether I want to go or not. I gave you fair warning, Missy; I told you this wasn't the life for me."

"Well, if you want to make me perfectly wretched—" said Missy, throwing down her book.

St. John had come up from the beach, and had thrown himself on the grass, with his hands clasped under his head, his hat lying beside him.

"I won't talk of it if it makes you wretched. Only you mustn't be surprised when I decide upon anything you don't like."

"I'd rather be surprised once than worried out of my life all the time."

"Very well, it's agreed." And St. John was silent, which Missy did not mean him to be. She wanted to argue with him about his restlessness.

"Such a good work as you are doing," she said. "Think what every one says about you."

"I don't want to think about it, if you please."

"Think of all those Rogers children being baptised, and of old Hillyard coming into the church. I should as soon have thought of Ship Point Rock melting as his hard heart. Nobody ever heard of anything more wonderful. And the repairs of the church; how the people are giving. Think what it will be to see a recess chancel, and stalls, and a real altar."

"Yes," said her brother, with a sigh, "that will be very nice. But it will come on now anyway. Anybody can do it."

"Oh, St. John, you dishearten me. Already you want to do 'some great thing.' Isn't that a bad sign, for so young a man?"

He was silent.

"I wish," she said, with a shade of impatience, "I wish you'd tell me, if you don't mind, what sort of work you want to do? What sort of people, pray, do you want to have the charge of?"

"I like wicked people," he said, very quietly.

"You—St. John! Fie. What do you know about wickedness?"

"More than you think, perhaps," he said uneasily, getting up, and turning his back upon the blue water. "Come, we won't talk about this any more. What have you been doing since Tuesday, and how is mamma?"

"Mamma is as usual; we haven't done anything of interest. Oh, yes. I went to call on the new people next door; and we are much interested in making out what and who they are. I was not admitted. Madame is an invalid, I believe, and rarely sees any one. The children are queer little things, the girl a beauty. I see them often peeping through the hedge."

"How about the gentleman? have you seen him?"

"No; the Olors know him slightly and say he's nice. The wife seems to be a mystery. No one knows anything about her. I am quite curious. They have lived several years abroad, and do not seem to have many ties here. At least no one seems to know much of them, in the city."

"I hope they're church people?"

"I don't know, indeed. I should not think it likely. The children have an elfish, untamed look, and there is such a troop of foreign-looking servants. What they need of all those people to keep such a plain, small house going, I can't imagine. I have no doubt they will demoralize our women. Two nurses do nothing but sit on the beach all day, and look at the two children who dig in the sand. The coachman never seems to do anything but smoke his pipe from the time of taking his master to the cars in the morning till the time of going for him in the evening. They have a man-waiter. I cannot think what for. He and the cook and the maid all seem to be French, and spend much of their morning in the boat-house. We have the 'Fille de Mme. Angot,' and odors of cheap cigars across the hedge. It isn't pleasant."

"How you do long to reconstruct that household!"

"In self-defense. I shouldn't wonder if we had to change every servant in our house before the summer is over. Even Goneril does nothing but furtively watch them from the upper windows and make reflections upon the easy times they have."

At this moment there was a splash in the water, and a cry. They had been sitting with their backs to the shell which St. John had left below on the beach, and a boy of five, the new neighbors' boy, had climbed into it, and, quite naturally, tumbled out of it. St. John vaulted over the fence, took two or three strides into the water, and picked him out.

"Heigho, young man, what would you have done if I hadn't been here?" he said, landing him dripping on the beach.

"Let me alone, will you!" cried the sturdy fellow, showing his gratitude and his shocked nerves by kicking at his benefactor. He did not cry, but he swelled with his efforts to keep from it.

"Of course I will," said his preserver mildly, looking down at him. "But I'd like to know what's become of your nurse. Where is she?"

"None of you's business," returned this sweet child, putting down his head. He was a dear little fellow, sturdy and well built, with stout bare legs, and tawny hair, banged on the forehead, and long and wavy behind. He had clear blue eyes, and a very tanned skin and very irregular features. He spoke with an accent of mixed Irish and French.

"I'm very sorry about it," said St. John, gently, "but I'm afraid you'll get cold. Better tell me where to find the nurse."

"None of you's business," returned the boy.

"There she is," said Missy in a low voice, "ever so far beyond the steamboat landing, with the waiter. See if you can make them hear."

St. John put his hand to his mouth and called. But alas! they were too deeply engrossed for such a sound to reach them.

"The child will get a horrid cold," said Missy, "it won't do to wait. I'll take him up to the house, and send one of the servants home with him."

But Missy reckoned without her host; this latter declined to go to "her house," and planted his feet firmly in the sand.

"You'll have to carry him," she intimated sotto voce to her brother. Then he hit from the shoulder, and it was well seen that was not a thing that could be done. The shock to his nerves and the bath had already resulted in making his lips blue. The water was dripping from his hair to his neck, and it was fair to suppose he felt a little chilly, as the breeze was increasing a trifle.

"I'll tell you," said Missy, cheerfully. "You shall take me to your house, if you won't go to mine. I don't know the way, but I suppose you do. Through the boat-house?"

The boy lifted his eyes doubtfully to see if she were in good faith, glowered at St. John, and after a moment made a step towards the boat-house.

"What a nice boat-house you've got," said Missy, walking on in front of him. "I wish we had as big a one."

"Got my things in it," said the child, and then, frightened at his own part in the conversation, put down his head and was silent.

"Do you keep your toys here? Why, how nice!" exclaimed Missy, pausing at the door. "Why, what a nice room, and here's a baby-house. Pray whose is that?"

"That's Gabby's, and that's mine—and this is my wheelbarrow—and that's her hoop—" And so on, through a catalogue of playthings that would have set up a juvenile asylum.

"I never saw so many playthings," said Missy, getting hold of his hand in a moment of enthusiasm over a new velocipede. "Have you got any more up at the house?"

"Lots," said the boy, succinctly.

"Won't you take me to see them?" And so, hand in hand, they set off, St. John watching them from the door of the boat-house with amusement.

Before they reached the house, Missy began to have some misgivings about the proceeding. She did not enjoy the idea of taking the enemy in the rear. What sort of people were they, and how would they like the liberty of having her enter from the beach? Some people do not like to be indebted to their neighbors for saving their children's lives. It's all a matter of temperament, education—and they might not like the precedent. She wished she might find a servant to whose care to commit him, and herself steal out the way she had come in. But, though there had seemed to be nothing but servants visible every time she had passed the house, or looked over at it from the upper windows, there were none to be found to-day. The place was as silent as if no one lived in it. She paused at the kitchen door, and called faintly, and told the boy to call, which he did with a good courage. But no response. Then they went around to the front piazza, and the boy, Jay, he said his name was, strutted up and down it, and declined to go in, or to go up stairs. He was getting bluer about the lips, and she knew he must not be left. So she rang the bell, several times, with proper intervals, but there was no answer. At last she went into the hall, and taking a shawl she found there, wrapped it around the child.

"Play you were a Highland Chief," she said, and he submitted.

She rang once more, and then followed the tugging of Jay's hand through the hall into the dining-room. There the table was laid, quite in state, for one. From the adjacent kitchen came an odor of soup, which was very good, but there was no living thing visible in it but a big dog, who thumped his tail hard on the floor. Then they went back into the hall, and over the stairs came a voice, rather querulous:

"Vell, vot is it—Vite? Vhere are all se servants?" Then, seeing a lady, the maid came down a few steps and apologized. Missy led up the child and explained the condition of affairs. Jay began to frown, and fret and pull away, as soon as she approached him. It was clear Alphonsine was not one of his affinities. She was a coffee-colored Frenchwoman, with a good accent and a bad temper, and had been asleep when the sixth ring of the bell had reached her. Missy began to be pretty sick of the whole business, and to wish to be out of it. So, rather peremptorily advising her to change the child's clothes and rub him well, she started to go away, boldly departing by the front gate, which was not a stone's throw from their own entrance. But she had barely reached the gate when the French woman came running after her, with a most voluble apology, and a message from Madame, that if it would not be asking too much of the young lady, would she kindly come back for a moment and allow Madame to express to her her thanks for her great goodness? The woman explained that her mistress was an invalid, and put the matter in such a light that there was no chance of refusing to go back, which was what Missy would very much have liked to do. The whole thing seemed awkward and uncomfortable, and she turned back feeling as little inclined to be gracious as possible.

The woman led the way up the stairs, at the head of which stood Jay, his teeth now chattering.

"Pray get his wet clothes off!" she said to the woman. "I'll find my way, if you'll point out the door."

The woman was not much pleased with this, and showed it by preceding her to the door, and watching her well into the room before she turned to push the unwilling Jay into the nursery, and with deliberation, not to say sullenness, take off his dripping clothes.

Missy found herself in a pretty room, rather warm, and rather dark, and rather close with foreign-smelling toilet odors. Before she had seen or spoken to the lady on the sofa, she had felt a strong inclination to push open the windows, and let in the glory of the sinking western sun, and the fresh breeze of evening. She felt a healthy revolt from the rich smells and the dim light. A soft voice spoke to her from the sofa, and then, as she came nearer, she saw the loveliest creature! Like all plain women, she had an enthusiasm for beauty in her own sex. She almost forgot to speak, she was so enchanted with the face before her. It was, indeed, beautiful; rare, dark eyes, perfect features, skin of a lovely tint. Missy was so dazzled by the sight she hardly knew whether she were attracted or not. The lady's voice was low and musical. Missy did not know whether she liked the voice or not. She could only listen and wonder. It was an experience—something new come into her life. She felt, in an odd sort of way, how small her knowledge of people was; how much existed from which she had been shut out.

"I've lived among people just like myself all my life; it's contemptible," she thought. "No wonder I am narrow. A woman lives such a stupid life at home."

She sat down and talked with Mrs. Andrews. Mrs. Andrews! What a prosaic name for this exotic plant; as if one called a Fritallaria Imperialis a potato. She began to wonder about Mr. Andrews. What was he? Why had no one told her these people were remarkable? She almost forgot to answer questions, and bear her part in the conversation. She did not yet know whether she admired or not. She only knew she was near a person who had lived a different life from hers; who had a history; who probably didn't think as she did on any one subject; who was entering from a side door, the existence of which she had not guessed, upon a scene which had seemed to belong to Missy and her sort alone. From what realms did she come? In what school had she been taught? She could not make her out, while she was being thanked for bringing Jay home. There was a languor about her manner of speaking of the little boy, which did not satisfy Missy, used to mammas who lived for their children, and considered it the pride and glory of life to know nothing beyond the nursery. This was the first mother who had ever dared to be languid about her children on Missy's small stage. She did not understand, and perhaps showed her perplexity, for her new acquaintance, with a faint sigh, said: "Poor little Jay; he is so strong and vehement, so alien. I believe he terrifies me. I think it must be because I am weak."

"I never liked a child so much; he is a little man," said Missy, warmly.

"Ah, yes! you are well and strong; you are in sympathy with him—but I—ah, well, I hope, Miss Rothermel, you will never have to feel yourself useless and a burden."

"I hope not, I am sure," said Missy honestly, feeling a little hurt on Jay's account, but still a great deal of pity for the soft voiced invalid. "Mamma could understand you better. She has been ill many years."

"Ah, the dear lady! I wish that I might know her. But with her it is different in a way. She perhaps is used to it, if ever one can be used to misery. But for me it is newer, I suppose, and, when young, one looks for pleasure, just a little."

Missy colored; she had forgotten that her mother could seem old to any one, and then she saw how very young her companion really was—younger than herself, no doubt.

"It is very hard," she said. "Can't you interest yourself in the children at all? They would be such a diversion if you could."

"My little Gabrielle, yes. But Jay is—so different, you know—so noisy; I believe he makes me ill every time he comes near me."

"Gabrielle looks like you," said Missy. "I have seen her on the beach sometimes."

Then the beautiful eyes lighted up, and Missy began to be enchanted. She did not know that she had produced the illumination, and that the beautiful creature was made happy by an opportunity to talk about herself. She gradually—sweetly slid into it, and Missy was wrapt in admiration. Her companion talked well about herself, con amore, but delicately and like a true artist. A beautiful picture was growing up before Missy. She would have been at a loss to say who painted it. She did not even think her egotistic, though she would have pardoned egotism in one who seemed so much better worth talking of than ordinary people. Her loneliness, her suffering, her youth, her exile from her own people, her uncongenial surroundings—how had Missy learned so much in one-half hour? And yet Mrs. Andrews had not seemed to talk about herself. It was sketchy; but Missy was imaginative, and when a carriage driving to the gate made her start up, she was surprised to find it was half an hour instead of half a life-time since she had come into the room.

"It is Mr. Andrews," she said, glancing from the window, "and I must go."

"Don't!" said the invalid, earnestly.

"O, it would be better," said Missy, "it is so awkward. I know husbands hate to find tiresome friends always in their wives' rooms when they come home."

"Yes, perhaps so, when they come to their wives' rooms when they get home."

There was a slight distension of the nostril and a slight compression of the lips when this was said. Missy flushed between embarrassment and indignation. Was it possible that Mr. Andrews was a brute, and was not at this moment on the stairs on his way to this lonely lovely sufferer?

Mrs. Andrews did not want her to go—she stayed at least ten minutes, standing ready to depart. As she went down the stairs, the servant passed through the hall, and she heard him announce dinner to his master, who promptly came in from the piazza, by which means, he and Missy were brought face to face in the hall near the dining-room door. Mr. Andrews probably felt, but did not express any astonishment at seeing a strange young lady in white muslin, without even the conventionality of a hat upon her head, walking about his temporary castle; he merely bowed, and, being very hungry, went into the dining-room to get his dinner. As for Missy, she felt it was very awkward, and she was also full of resentment. She inclined her head in the slightest manner, and only glanced at him to see whether he was remarkable-looking, and whether he had any right to be a tyrant and a brute. It takes a very handsome man to have any such right as that, and Mr. Andrews was by no means handsome. He was not tall—rather a short man, and almost a stout man. Not that exactly, but still not as slight as he ought to have been for his height. He was not young either—certainly forty possibly more. He had blue eyes, and hair and whiskers of light brown. The expression of his face was rather stern. He was evidently thinking of something that gave him no pleasure when he looked up and saw Missy, and there was perhaps nothing in the sight of her that induced him to cast the shadow from his brow. So she did not see that he had a good smile, and that his eyes were particularly intelligent and keen. She hurried past him with the settled belief that he was a monster of cruelty; the odor of the soup, which was particularly good, and the sound of the chair upon the floor as it was pushed up before the lonely table, and the clinking of a glass were added touches to the dark picture.

"I suppose he hasn't given her a thought," she said to herself, as the gate shut after her. "Dinner, imagine it, comes first. He looks like a gourmand; he is a gourmand, I am sure. That soup was perfectly delicious; I wish I had the receipt for it. But he is worse than a gourmand. Gourmands are often good-natured. He is a tyrant, and I hate him. Think of the misery of that poor young thing! How could she have married him? I would give worlds to know her history. He isn't capable of a history. I suppose she must have been very poor, and forced into the marriage by her parents. Nothing else can account for such a mésalliance."

When she entered the parlor, St. John was sitting by his mother's sofa. "How is our young friend?" he said. "Remember I saved his life; so don't put on any airs because you got him to go home."

"It was a great deal harder work," said Missy; "and you like hard work, you say. But, mamma, I have seen her, and she is the loveliest creature—Mrs. Andrews, I mean! She is confined to her room—never leaves it—a hopeless invalid. And he is a brute, an utter brute! I can hardly find words to describe him. He is short and stout, and has a most sinister expression. And now think of this—listen to what I say: He went in to dinner, without going up to her room at all! Can you think of anything more heartless?"

"Oh, yes," said St. John, commonplacely; "not sending her up any dinner would have been worse—not paying her bills—not taking her to the country."

Missy scorned to reply to him, but directed her conversation to her mother. "Her beauty is very remarkable, and she seems so young. The man is certainly forty. I really wish I could find out something about them. She is French, I think, though she speaks without an accent. She is so different from the people one sees every day; she gives you an idea of a different life from ours. And for my part, I am glad to see something of another stratum. Do you know, I think we are very narrow? All women, of course, are from necessity; but it seems to me I have led a smaller life than other women."

"I don't think you need regret it," said her brother, seriously; "it saves you a great deal."

"Pray don't say anything, you who like wicked people."

St. John was "hoist with his own petard."

"Then you think I might enjoy Mr. and Mrs. Andrews?" he said.

"Mr. Andrews would satisfy all your aspirations," returned Missy; "but not his wife, unless it is wicked to be unconventional."

"But how did you find out she was unhappy; I hope she didn't tell you so?" asked Mrs. Varian.

"No, of course she did not! I don't really know how I divined it; but it was most easy to see. And then he did not come up to see her! is not that enough?"

"Perhaps he was hungry—unusually hungry; or perhaps he is a victim to dyspepsia, and cannot go through any excitement upon an empty stomach. You know his doctors may have forbidden him."

"Really, St. John," said Missy, much annoyed, "it is not safe to find fault with a man in your presence. Your class feeling is so strong, I think you would defend him if he had two wives."

"Who knows but that may be the trouble?" he said. "He didn't know which to go to first, and he may have had to send two dinners up. No wonder that he has dyspepsia! That being the case—"

"You are rather illogical for a man. Who said he had dyspepsia? What does that stand upon? Mamma, I want to have the children in here often. Jay is a darling, and as to Gabby—"

"Gabby!" repeated her mother.

"Gabrielle," said Missy, blushing, and glancing anxiously at her brother, to see if he were laughing. "It was Jay called her Gabby—a horrid shortening, certainly. Gabrielle is a lovely name, I think. But what's the matter, St. John? What have I said now?"

"Nothing," said her brother, in a forced, changed voice, as he got up and walked about the room, every sparkle of merriment gone from his eyes.

"It is time for tea, is it not?" said Mrs. Varian.

"Yes, I suppose it is," returned Missy, wearily, getting up and crossing over to ring the bell, as if tea were one of the boundaries of her narrow sphere.

CHAPTER V.

GABBY AND JAY.

After that, there were daily visits to Mrs. Andrews, daily messages passing between the houses, daily hours with Gabby and Jay upon the beach. It became the most interesting part of Miss Rothermel's life. It was a romance to her, though she thought she was not romantic. Her dream was to do good, a great deal of good, to somebody, all the better if she happened to like the somebody. It was tiresome to do good all the time to Aunt Harriet, who was all the time there ready to be done good to. It was not conceivable that mamma could need her very much—mamma, who had St. John, and who really did not seem an object of compassion at all, rather some one to go to, to get comforted. She was "a-weary" of the few poor people of the place. They seemed inexpressibly "narrow" to her now. She seemed suddenly to have outgrown them. She condemned herself for the time and thought she had bestowed upon them, when she counted up the pitiful results.

"I suppose I have spent a month, and driven forty miles, and talked volumes, if it were all put together, to get that wretched Burney boy to go to Sunday school. And what does it amount to, after all, now that he does go? He carries things in his pockets to eat, and he makes the other children laugh, and he sits on the gravestones during service, and whistles loud enough to have to be hunted away by the sexton every Sunday. No; I shall let him go now; he may come or not, as he sees fit."

It was certainly much pleasanter to sit on the beach and curl Jay's tawny hair, and make him pictures on shells, and teach him verses, and his letters. Gabrielle, with her great dark, side-looking eyes, was not as congenial to Missy, but even she was more satisfactory than the Burney boy, with his dirty hands and terrible dialect. Children without either refinement or innocence are not attractive, and though Missy feared Gabby was not quite innocent, she had a good deal of refinement in appearance and manner. She spoke with a slow, soft manner, and never looked one straight in the eye. She had a passion for jewelry and fine clothes, and made her way direct to any one who had on a bracelet or locket of more than ordinary pretension, and hung over it fascinated. It was sometimes difficult to shake her off, and the questions she asked were wearisome. Missy's visitors were apt to pet and notice her very much at first and then to grow very tired of her. She was a picturesque object, though her face was often dirty, and her hair was always wild. She wore beautiful clothes, badly put on and in wretched order; embroidered French muslin dresses with the ruffles scorched and over-starched; rich Roman scarfs with the fringes full of straws and sticks; kid boots warped at the heel, and almost buttonless; stockings faded, darned with an alien color, loose about the ankles. All this was a trial to Missy, whose love of order and neatness was outraged by the lovely little slattern.

For a long while she sewed on furtive buttons, picked clear fringes, re-instated ruffles, caught up yawning rents. She would reconstruct Gabby, then catch her in her arms and kiss her, and tell her how much better she looked when she was neat. Gabby would submit to the caress, but would give a sidelong glance at Missy's perfect appointments—yawn, stretch out her arms, make probably a new rent, and tear away across the lawn to be caught in the first thorn presenting. She was passionately fond of fine clothes, but she was deeply lazy, and inconsequently Bohemian. The idea of constraint galled her. She revolted from Missy's lectures and repairing touches.

Then Missy tried her 'prentice hand on the faithless servants. The faithless servants did not take it kindly. They resented her suggestions, and hated her.

Then she faintly tried to bring the subject to the notice of the mother. This was done with many misgivings, and with much difficulty, for it was not easy to get the conversation turned on duties and possible failures. Somehow, it was always a very different view the two took of things, when they had their long talks together. It was always of herself that Mrs. Andrews talked—always of her sufferings, her wrongs. When your friend is posturing for a martyr, it is hard to get her into an attitude of penitence without hurting her feelings. When she is bewailing the faults of others, it is embarrassing to turn the office into a confession of her own. Missy entered on her task humbly, knowing that it would be a hard one. She did not realize why it would be so hard. She had a romantic pity for her friend. She would not see her faults. Indeed, any one might have been blinded, who began with a strong admiration. When a woman is too ill to be talked to about her duties even, it is hard to expect her to perform them with rigor. When Missy, baffled and humbled, returned from that unfortunate mission, she acknowledged to herself she had attempted an impossibility. "She cannot see, she never has seen—probably she never will be obliged to see, what neglect her children are suffering from. She is too ill to be able to take in anything outside her sick room. The cross laid on her requires all her strength. It is cruelty to ask her to bear anything more. I am ashamed to have had the thought." So she turned to the poor little children so sadly orphaned, as it seemed to her, and with tenderness, tried to lighten their lot, and shield them from the tyrannies and negligences of their attendants. Little Jay lived at his new friend's house, ate at her table, almost slept in her bosom. He naturally preferred this to the cold slatternliness of his own home, and he was rarely missed or inquired for.

"He might have been in the bay for the past five hours, for all the servants know about it," said Mrs. Varian, to whom all this was an anxiety and depression. "Don't you think, Missy, you give them an excuse in keeping him here so much? They naturally will say, if anything happens, they thought he was with you, and that you take him away for such long drives and walks, they never know where to find him."

"My dear mamma," cried Missy, "don't you think the wretches would find an excuse for whatever they did? Is their duplicity to make it right for me to abandon my poor little man to them?"

"At least always report it at the house when you take him away for half a day."

So after that, Missy was careful to make known her plan at the Andrews' before she took Jay away for any long excursion. She would stop at the door in her little pony-carriage, and lifting out Jay, would send him in to say to a pampered menial at the door, that they need not be uneasy about him if he did not come back till one or two o'clock.

"We won't put on mournin' for ye before three, thin, honey," said the man, on one occasion. Jay didn't understand the meaning of the words, but he understood the cynical tone, and he kicked the fellow on a beloved calf. Then the man, enraged, caught him by the arm and held him off, but he continued to kick and hit from the shoulder with his one poor little unpinioned arm. The man was white with rage, for Jay was unpopular, and Miss Rothermel also, and he hated to be held in check by her presence, and by the puerile fear of losing his place, which her presence created.

Now it happened on this pleasant summer morning that Mr. Andrews had not gone to town, and that he had not gone out on the bay, as was supposed in the household, the wind having proved capricious. Consequently he was just entering from the rear of the house, as this pretty tableau was being presented on the front piazza. When the enraged combatants raised their eyes, they found Mr. Andrews standing in the hall door, and darkly regarding them.

"Papa! kill him!" cried Jay, as the flunky suddenly released him, dashing at the unprotected calves like a fury. "Kill him for me!"

"With pleasure," said his father, calmly, "but you let it alone. Come to the library at ten o'clock, I will see you about this matter," he said to the man, who slunk away, while Jay came to take his father's outstretched hand, very red and dishevelled. By this time Missy, much alarmed, had sprung from the carriage, and ran down the walk, just in time to confront the father. He was beginning to question the boy, but turning around faced the young lady unexpectedly, and took off his hat. Missy looked flushed and as excited as the boy.

"I hope you won't blame Jay," she said, "for it is safe to say it is the man's fault. They tease him shamefully, and he is such a little fellow."

Mr. Andrews' face softened at these words. It was plain she thought he was severe with his children, but that was lost in the sweetness of hearing any one plead for his little boy with that intuitive and irrational tenderness.

"I want to hit him!" interrupted Jay, doubling up his fist. "I want to hit him right in his ugly mouth."

"Hush," said his father, frowning, "little boys must not hit any one, least of all, their father's servants. You come to me whenever they trouble you, and I will make it right."

"You're never here when they do it," said the child.

"Well, you keep quiet, and then come and tell me when I get home."

"I forget it then," said Jay, naively.

"Then I think it can't go very deep," returned his father, smiling.

"It will go deep enough to spoil his temper utterly, I'm afraid," said Missy, biting her lips to keep from saying more.

"I am sorry enough," he began earnestly, but catching sight of her face, his voice grew more distant. "I suppose it is inevitable," he added slowly, as Jay, loosing his hold of his father's hand, picked up his hat, straightened his frock, and went over to Missy's side.

"I am going to ride with Missy," he said, tugging a little at her dress. "Come, it's time."

"Perhaps your father wants you to stay with him, as he isn't often at home."

"O no," said Mr. Andrews, as they all walked towards the gate. "Jay is better off with you, I am afraid, and happier. And I want to thank you, Miss Rothermel, for your many kindnesses to the children. I assure you, I—I appreciate them very much."

"O," cried Missy, stiffly, and putting very sharp needles into her voice, "there is nothing to thank me for. It is a pleasure to have them for their own sakes, and everything that I can do to make Mrs. Andrews more comfortable about them, is an added pleasure."

Missy knew this was a fib the instant she had uttered it. She knew it didn't make Mrs. Andrews a straw more comfortable to know the children were in safe hands; but she wanted to say something to punish this brutal husband, and this little stab dealt itself, so to speak. She was very sorry about the fib, but she reflected one must not be too critical in dealing with brutal husbands if one's motives are right. Mr. Andrews stiffened too, and his face took a hard and cynical look.

"Undoubtedly," he said, and then he said no more. Jay held the gate open for them.

"Come," he said, "it's time to go." Missy stepped into the low carriage—disdaining help, and gathered up the reins. Mr. Andrews lifted Jay into the seat beside her.

"And I guess I'll stay to dinner with Missy, so you needn't send for me," said Jay, seating himself comfortably and taking the whip, which was evidently his prerogative. Nobody could help smiling, even brutal husbands and people who had been telling fibs. "I haven't heard you invited," said the representative of the former class.

"O, Jay knows he is always welcome. I will send him home before evening, if I may keep him till then."

Mr. Andrews bowed, and the little carriage rolled away, the child forgetting to look back at his father, eagerly pleased with the whip and the drive, and the sunshine and the morning air. Mr. Andrews watched them out of sight, and as they were lost among the trees in a turn of the road, he sighed and turned stolidly towards the house. It was a low, pretty cottage, the piazza was covered with flowering vines, there were large trees about it—the grass was green and well-kept, a trim hedge separated it from the Varian place; at the rear, beyond the garden, was the boat-house and then a low fence that ran along the yellow beach. The water sparkled clear and blue; what a morning it was; and what a peaceful, pretty attractive little home it looked. People passing along the road might well gaze at it with envy, and imagine it the "haunt of all affections pure." This thought passed through Mr. Andrews' mind, as he walked from the gate. It made his face a little harder than usual, and it was usually hard enough.

CHAPTER VI.

A PASSING SOUL.

It was six weeks after this; life had been going on with little change, when one morning Missy drew the reins of her brown horse before the Rectory gate, and hurriedly springing out, ran down the path, leaving the carriage at the roadside. She had a vail tied close across her face; but she had no gloves, and her manner showed haste and excitement. St. John was in his study. She ran in, exclaiming, as she opened the door: "I wish you could come with me immediately, St. John. Get ready; don't stop to ask questions. I will tell you while you're going."

"Mamma?" he asked, with a sudden contraction of the face, as he started up and went across the room to get his hat.

"No! oh, thank Heaven! no. But don't stop for anything. Come; it is more to me than you."

Then St. John knew that it was something that concerned the Andrews'; but generously made all the haste he could in following her. As he stepped into the carriage after her, and took the reins from her hand, he said:

"Well!" and turned to listen.

"It is Mrs. Andrews," she said, tremblingly. "She is dying; she may be dead. I knew nothing of it till this morning, though her life has been in danger through the night. Those cruel servants did not send for us, and she has been in too much suffering to ask for any one. Now, she scarcely knows me, but at first turned to me eagerly. She had something to say; I don't know what. But she will never say it. Oh, St. John! Death is so fearful—the silence. I can never hear that word, whatever it is, of great or little moment."

"Her husband is with her?"

"That is the dreadful part. He is not at home. There is no one to do anything. How they got the doctor is a wonder; except there is a brute instinct, even in such creatures, that runs for the doctor. It was ages before I could find the address of Mr. Andrews in town. Ages before I could get any one off with the telegram. I came for you myself, because I could trust no one else to get you quickly. Oh, St. John, do drive a little faster!"

"And what am I to do, now that you have got me?" said her brother, in a low tone, gazing before him at the horse, now almost on a gallop.

"Do? oh, St. John! save her! say a prayer for her! help her! What are such as you to do but that? I didn't think you'd ask me. Oh, it is so terrible to think of her poor soul. She is so unready; poor thing—unless her sufferings will stand instead. Don't you think they may? Don't you think God might accept them instead of—of spirituality and love for Him?"

"We're not set to judge, Missy," said her brother, soothingly. "Let us hope all we can, and pray all we can. I wish that she were conscious, if only for one moment."

"Well, pray for it," cried Missy, and then burst into tears. After a moment, she turned passionately to him, and said: "St. John, I am afraid it is partly for my own comfort I want her to speak and to be conscious for one moment. I want to feel that I have a right to hope for her eternal safety, and that I haven't been wasting all these weeks in talking of things that didn't concern that, when I might have been leading her to other thoughts. Oh, St. John, tell me, ought I to have been talking about her soul all this time, when it was so hard? She was—oh, I know you will understand me—she was so full of her sufferings, and—well, of herself, that I couldn't easily talk about what I knew in my heart she ought to be getting ready for. I didn't know it was so near. Ah, I wasted the hours, and now her blood may be upon my soul. St. John, there never was anybody so unready. It appalls me. I see it all now. Poor, beautiful thing. She seems to be only made for earth. Oh, the awe! St. John, if I had been a very good person, utterly holy, I might have saved her, might I not? I should not have thought of anything else, and by the force of my one purpose and desire, I could have wakened her."

"Maybe not, my sister. Don't reproach yourself; only pray."

Missy twisted her hands together in her lap, and was motionless, as they hurried on. In a moment more they were standing at the gate. As Missy sprang out, little Jay met her, fretting and crying.

"Oh, why haven't they taken the children over to mamma, as I ordered?" she cried; but there was no one to make excuse. "Go, go, my dear little Jay," she pleaded. But Jay was all unstrung and unreasonable, feeling the gloom and discomfort. "See," she cried, hurriedly kneeling down on the grass beside him, "go to Mrs. Varian, and tell her you are come to pay her a little visit; and tell her to let you go to my room, and on the table there you will find a little package, tied up in a white paper; and it is for you. I tied it up for you last night. Go see what it is; you haven't any idea. It is something you will like so much!" Jay was on his way before Missy got into the house.

It was a warm morning, close and obscure. One felt the oppression in every nerve—an August suffocation. Low banks of threatening clouds lay over the island that shut in the bay from the Sound, and over the West Harbor. They boded and brooded, but would lie there for the many hours of morning and midday that remained. Not a ripple moved the sullen water; not a leaf stirred on the trees; the sun seemed hidden deep in clouds of hot, still vapor. The house was all open, doors and windows, gasping for breath. In the hall one or two servants stood aimlessly about, listening at the foot of the stairs, or whispering together.

St. John followed his sister closely as she entered the house. The servants made way for her, and they went quickly up the stairs. At the door of the sick room they paused. Another woman, wringing her hands, and listening with keen curiosity, stood gazing in. The room was in the most confused state. The coffee-colored Alphonsine moved stolidly about, and occasionally put a piece of furniture in its place, or removed a garment thrown down in the haste and panic of the past night; but standing still, more often, to gaze back at the bed. She crossed herself often, in a mechanical manner, but looked more sullen than sympathetic. There was a bath in the middle of the room, cloths and towels strewn upon the floor beside it, mustard, a night-lamp flickering still in the face of day, a bowl of ice, some brandy. The windows were thrown wide open; the bed stood with its head near one—another one was opposite to it. The light fell full upon the ghastly face of the suffering woman. Beauty! had she ever been beautiful? "Like as a moth fretting a garment," so had her anguish made her beauty to consume away. A ghastly being—suffering, agonized, dying—wrestling with a destroying enemy! Such conflicts cannot last long; the end was near.

As St. John and his sister entered the room, the doctor, who stood at the head of the bed, was wiping the perspiration from his forehead and glancing out of the window. He was troubled and worn out with the night's work, and was watching eagerly for a brother physician who had been summoned to his aid. He knew the new-comer could do no good, but he could share the responsibility with him, and bring back the professional atmosphere out of which he had been carried by the swift and terrible progress of his patient's malady. Above all things, the doctor wished to be professional and cool; and he knew he was neither in the midst of this blundering crowd of servants, and in the sight of this fiercely dying woman. He could have wished it all to be done over again. He had lost his head, in a degree. He did not believe that anything could have arrested the flight of life; all the same he wished he had known a little more about the case; had taken the alarm quicker and sent for other aid. He looked harassed and helpless, and very hot and tired. All this St. John saw as he came in the room.

Missy looked questioningly at him, and then as he gave a gesture of assent, came quickly to the side of the bed. She half knelt beside it, and took the poor sufferer's hand in hers. The touch, perhaps, caused her to open her eyes, and her lips moved. Then her glance, roving and anguished, fell upon St. John. She lifted her hand with a sudden spasm of life.

"A priest?" she said, huskily.

"Yes," said St. John, coming to her quietly.

"Then all of you go away—quick—I want to speak to him."

"There is no time to spare," said the doctor, as he passed St. John. Missy followed him, and the servants followed her. She closed the door and waited outside.

The servants seemed to be consoled by the presence of a priest; things were taking the conventional death-bed turn. Even the doctor felt as if the professional atmosphere were being restored in a degree. St. John, indeed, had looked as if he knew what he was about, and had been calm in the midst of the agitated and uncertain group, occupied himself, perhaps, by but one thought. Young as he was, his sister and the doctor and the servants shut him into the room with a feeling of much relief. The servants nodded, and went their ways with apparent satisfaction. The doctor threw himself into a chair in an adjoining room, and signified to Miss Rothermel that he would rest till he was called. And she herself knelt down beside an open window just outside the door, and waited, and probably devoutly prayed for the passing soul making her tardy count within.

She could not but speculate upon the interview. Now that the awful sense of responsibility was lifted off her and shifted upon her brother's shoulders, she felt more naturally and more humanly. She began to wonder whether it had been to ask her for a priest that the dying woman had struggled when she first saw her that morning. She was almost sure it was, for she had clutched at St. John with such eagerness. It was probable she did not know him and did not associate him with Missy. His marked dress had been his passport. And Missy really did not know what her friend's creed was. It seemed probable she had been a Roman Catholic, but had dropped her form of faith in holiday times of youth and possible wrong doing, and had never had grace to resume that, or any other in the weary days of illness—unprofitable so long as they did not threaten death. But now death was at the door, and she had clutched at the hem of a priest's garment. So, thought Missy, it is real when it comes to facts; for what fact so real as death? Everything else seemed phantom-dim when she thought of that face upon the pillow, with the wide-open window shedding all the gray morning's light upon it.

The moments passed; the still, dull, heavy air crept in at the window upon which Missy bowed her head; the leaves scarcely stirred upon the trees that stood up close beside it; a languid bird or two twittered an occasional smothered note. There were few household sounds. The servants, though released from their futile watching, did not resume their household work. Missy smelt the evil odor of the Frenchman's cigar, and was ashamed to find it vexed her, even at such a moment as this; she braced herself to endure the "Fille de Mme. Angot," if that should follow in a low whistle from under the trees. But it did not. The Frenchman had that much respect for what was going on within.

At last! There was a stir—a moan, audible even through the door, and Missy started to her feet, and signalled the doctor, who had heard it, too. Her brother opened the door and admitted them. But what a ghastly face was his; Missy started.

He turned back to the bed, and kneeling, read the commendatory prayer.

"Through the grave and gate of death,
Now the faint soul travaileth."

Ah, God help her; it is over. He has brought to pass His act, His strange act, and only death lies there, senseless, dull death, corruptible, animal, earthy, where but a moment before a soul of parts and passions, had been chained.

Missy, new to death-beds, got up from her knees at last, weeping and awed, and, laying her hand on her brother's, said, "Come away, St. John, you look so ill."

St. John arose and followed her, going to the room and sinking into the chair lately occupied by the doctor. He looked ill indeed, but his sister could offer him no comfort; quiet, and to be left alone was all he asked of her. At this moment the doctor summoned in consultation appeared; both the professional men went professionally into the chamber of death, and Missy, clasping the inert hand of Gabrielle, who, whimpering, had refused to go up stairs, went sorrowfully home with the child, feeling that she had no more to do in the house of death that day.

St. John came home in an hour or two. Mr. Andrews had not yet arrived. Everything that could be done without him had, under the direction of St. John and the doctor, been done. The house was quiet and in order, he said. It was almost certain that Mr. Andrews would arrive in the next train; the carriage was waiting at the depot for him, though no telegram had come. St. John threw himself on the sofa, and seemed again to want quiet, so his sister left him, and took the children to her own room. It was so close in the house, and they were so restless, that after a while she took them out upon the lawn. There was no sun, and just a cool air, though no breeze, creeping in from the water. It was comparatively easy to amuse them there, or rather, to let them amuse themselves. Gabrielle was inquisitive and fretful, but little Jay seemed to feel languid and tired by the morning's heat, and crept upon her lap at last and went to sleep.

Missy, sitting in the deep shade of the trees near the beech gate, soothed by the quiet, and worn with the morning's excitement, almost slept herself. She had gone over many times in imagination the arrival of the husband, and his first moment at the bedside of his dead wife. She felt sure all this had now taken place, though she was too far from the house to hear the arrival of the carriage from the depot. She wondered whether he would send in for the children at once, or whether he would be glad they were away; or whether he would think of them at all. She was glad to remember she had no duty in the matter, and that she did not have to see him, and it was rather a comfort to her to feel she did not know the exact moment at which he was going through the terrible scene, and feeling the first anguish of remorse. She kissed Jay's tawny head, and with her arms around him, finally slept, leaning back in the great chair. Gabrielle at first played at her feet idly, then went down to the beach, and amused herself in the sand, but it was hot, and she came back to the shade, and, lying on the rug at Missy's feet, slept too.

A small steam yacht, meanwhile, had come into the harbor, had put off a small boat, which was even now landing a gentleman near the boat-house of the Andrews' place. The boat returned to the yacht; the gentleman set down his bag on the steps of the boat-house, and looked around. All was quiet; no one seemed moving at either of the two houses. Certainly it was not a day to move if you could help it. The only hope was that those dark clouds in the west would move, and make some change in the stagnant state of things. The gentleman took off his straw hat and fanned himself and walked slowly forward, then, catching sight of the group under the trees, with something like a smile, turned back and approached them. He stood looking down upon them, before any of them moved. Certainly, a pretty enough group. Gabrielle was sleeping, face forward, on her arms, a graceful figure, on the dark rug. Missy, with her soft, pretty hair tumbled, and a flush on her cheek, lay nearly at full length in the stretched-out sleepy chair, her light dress swept upon the grass, and exposing one small and perfect foot with a gossamer stocking and a darling high-heeled low-cut shoe. And Jay, flushed and hot, with his tawny curls against her breast, and one brown hand in hers, lay across her lap; her other hand, very white by contrast, holding the brown bare legs in a protecting way; some picture-books, and a broad hat or two lay upon the grass beside them. There was something in the sight that seemed to move more than the spectator's admiration; but whatever emotion it was, was quickly dispelled, and commonplace greeting and pleasure came back into his face, as Gabrielle, aroused, got up with a cry of:

"Why, papa! where did you come from? I—I guess I was asleep."

Missy, with a start, sat up, bewildered. She had been dreaming, perhaps, of the scene in the upper room in the house next door, which haunted her imagination. And here she was, face to face with the man over whose remorse she rather gloated, and it would be difficult to say how any one could look less remorseful than he looked now. Certainly, more genial and pleasant than she had ever seen him look before. She felt that she must have been dreaming all the occurrences of the morning. Jay fretted and refused to wake. Her dress was wet where his hot little head had been lying; he threw his arm up over her neck and nestled back.

"I—we—what train—have you just come?" she stammered, trying to know what she was talking of, and to believe that there was no dead face on the pillow up-stairs.

"I did not come on a train, but in a yacht," he answered, putting his arms around Gabby's shoulders, and holding her little hands in his. "We started last night. Some friends of mine are on a cruise, and persuaded me to let them bring me here. But an accident to the machinery kept us over-night at our moorings, and interminable arrangements for the cruise put us back this morning. We have had a hot day of it on the Sound, and are just arrived. See, Gabrielle, there goes the yacht out of the mouth of the harbor. It is a pity we can't run up a flag from the boat-house; but it is too hot for exertion, and I suppose all the servants are asleep."

"Then you haven't—" faltered Missy, "you—that is—you have not been to the house—"

"No," said Mr. Andrews, looking at her as if he did not mean to be surprised at anything she might say or do. "No, I am just on shore, and unexpected at home. I hope you are quite well, Miss Rothermel;" for Missy was turning very pale. "I am afraid that boy is too heavy for you; let me take him."

Missy was struggling to get up, and Jay was fighting to keep his place, and not to be disturbed.

"Let me take him. Jay, be quiet. What do you mean by this, my boy? Come to me at once."

"No, oh no!" said Missy, regaining her feet, and holding the boy in her arms. He put his damp curls down on her shoulder, and both arms around her neck, and with sleepy, half-shut, obstinate eyes, looked down upon the ground, and up upon his father.

Gabrielle, seeing the situation, said, amazed: "Don't you know, papa?" and then stopped suddenly, and looked frightened.

"Hush, Gabrielle," cried Missy, trembling. For Gabby's heartlessness would be a cruel medium through which to communicate the news.

"There is some trouble?" said Mr. Andrews, quietly, looking from one to the other. "Do not be afraid to tell me."

"Let us go up to the house," said Missy, hurriedly, taking a few steps forward with her heavy burden. Mr. Andrews walked silently beside her, looking upon the ground, with an expression not very different from the one he wore habitually, though very different from the one he had just been wearing. Gabby hung behind, looking askance at the two before her, with mingled curiosity and apprehension in her face.

"You need not be afraid to tell me," he said, as they walked on. "Has anything happened? I am quite unprepared, but I would rather know. I suppose I have been telegraphed, if I was needed—"

"I sent the telegrams to your office," said Missy; "the first one at nine this morning. My brother sent the last one. The carriage has been at every train all day."

"It was a strange mischance. They did not know at the office that I was going home in the yacht."

"The servants were so heedless, and they did not even send for us."

"You forget, I do not know," said Mr. Andrews, in a controlled voice, as she paused, in walking as well as in speaking. For her agitation, and the weight of the sleeping child together, made her tremble so that she stopped, and leaned against a linden tree on the lawn, which they were passing.

"Oh, it is hard that it should come upon me," cried Missy desperately, as she looked at him with a strange pair of eyes, leaning against the tree, very white and trembling, and holding the boy to her breast.

"Yes; it is hard," said her companion, "for I know it must be something very painful to move you so. I will go to my house and learn about it there. Come, Gabrielle; will you come with me, child?"

"Oh, stay," cried Missy, as he stretched out his hand to the little girl, and was going away without her, as she began to cry and hang back, taking hold of Missy's dress. "It will be hard to hear it there—from servants. It is the worst news any one could hear. How can I tell you? The poor little children, they are left—alone—to you."

And, bursting into tears, she sunk down beside Gabrielle on the grass, and held her and Jay in one embrace. There was a silence but for the sobs of Gabrielle, for Missy's tears were silent after the first burst; they were raining now on Jay's head, and she kissed his forehead again and again. "I have told you very badly," she said brokenly, after a moment. "I hoped you would not hear it all at once; but it was not my fault."

There was no answer, and she went on. "The illness was so sudden and terrible, and there was no hope, after we knew of it. I feel so dazed and tired I hardly know what to tell you of it. It is several hours since—since all was over. I don't suppose anything could have been done to make it different; but it must be so dreadful to you to think you were not here. Oh, I don't know at all how you can bear it."

She looked up at him as she said this. He stood perfectly still and upright before her, his face paler, perhaps, than usual, hard and rigid. But whether he was hearing what she said, and weighing it critically, or whether he did not hear or comprehend, she could not tell. There was no change of expression, no emotion in eye or mouth to enlighten her. She had, in her pity for him, and her agitation at being the one to communicate the evil tidings, forgotten the rancor that she bore him, and the remorse that she had wished he might endure. These feelings began sharply to awaken, as she glanced at him. She felt her tears burn her cheeks, looking at his unmoistened eyes. She put down Jay upon his feet, and disengaging herself from Gabrielle, stood up, keeping Jay's hand in hers.

"My brother will tell you all the rest," she said, slowly moving on, leading the children. Mr. Andrews mechanically followed her, looking upon the ground. Missy's heart beat fast; she held the children tight by the hand; it seemed to her that this was worse than all the rest. She was not much used to tragedy, and had never had to tell a man the wife was dead, whom he was expecting to meet within five minutes.

The men and women she had known had loved each other, and lived happily together, in a measure. She was new to this sort of experience. She was thrilling with the indignation that very young persons feel when their ideal anything is overthrown. She was, practically, in the matter of ideals, a very young person, though she was twenty-eight.

They were very near the house now. A few more steps and they would be at the side door that led into the summer parlor. There was a total silence, broken by Jay's whimpering, "I don't want to go home with papa; I want to stay with you to-night."

Gabby, who didn't have any more cheerful recollection of home to-day than he, chimed in a petition to stay. She thought she would rather look over aunt Harriet's boxes, and be a little scolded, than go home to the ejaculations and whisperings of the servants, and have to pass That Room. This was about the depth of her grief; but she whimpered and wanted to stay. When they reached the steps that led up to the door, Missy paused and turned to Mr. Andrews, who was just behind her.

"Shall I keep the children?" she said, facing him, her cheeks flushed, a child grasping each hand.

"Yes—if you will—if you will be so kind," he said. She had hoped his voice would be shaken, would show agitation. But it did not. It was rather low, but perfectly controlled, and he knew what he was saying. He "remembered his manners." He was collected enough to be polite; "if you will be so kind."

"Come then, children," she said, trembling all over, voice included, as she went up the steps. He walked away without any further speech. Leaving the children in the summer-parlor, she ran through the house to one of the front windows, and pushing open a little the blind, sat down palpitating and watched him going down to the gate. He walked slowly, but his step was steady. He followed the road, and did not walk across the grass, like a man who does not think what he is doing. When he reached the gate, he did not turn to the right towards his own house, to the gate of which a few steps more would have brought him, but he walked up the road, with his head down, as if pondering something. Presently, however, he turned and came back, passed the Varians' gate, and went on into his own. And then Missy lost sight of him among the trees that stood between the two houses. She threw herself upon a sofa, and pressed her hands before her eyes, as she thought of that broken, pain-strained figure, rigid on the bed up-stairs. And if he did not cry for his coldness and cruelty, she did, till her head and her eyes ached.

That night, after Missy had put the children to bed in her own room, as she went down stairs, she heard St. John sending a servant in to ask Mr. Andrews if he would see him for a few moments.

"St. John," she exclaimed, in a low voice, joining him. "Why do you send in? It is his place to send for you. I would not do it, really. I—I hate the man. I told him you would tell him everything, and he has been here four hours at least, and has never sent for you. I don't believe he wants to hear anything. I have no doubt he has had a good dinner and is reading the paper. May be he will ask you to join him with a cigar."

"Don't be uncharitable, Missy," said her brother, walking up and down the room.

"But why do you send?" persisted his sister. "He doesn't want to see you, or he would have sent."

"But I want to see him. So, Missy, don't let us talk about it any more."

It was evident to his sister that St. John did not anticipate the meeting with much pleasure. He was a little restless, for him, till the servant came back with a message, to the effect that Mr. Andrews would be very glad to see Mr. Varian at once, if he were at liberty to come. St. John looked rather pale as he kissed his sister good-night (for he was not coming back, but going directly home to the rectory), and she felt that his hand was cold.

"He is young for such experiences," she said to her mother, as she sat down beside her sofa in the summer twilight.

"He doesn't seem young to me any longer," returned her mother.

"A few days such as this would make us all old," said Missy, with a sigh, leaning her face down on her mother's arm. "Mamma, I am sure this interview is very painful to St. John. I am sure he has been charged with something to say to her husband, by that poor soul. How I wish it weren't wrong to ask him what it was. But,"—with a sigh—"I suppose we shall never know."

"Never, Missy. But we can be charitable. And when you are my age, my child, you will be afraid to judge any one, and will distrust the sight of your own eyes."

At this moment Miss Varian came lumbering into the room, leaning on the arm of Goneril.

"I suppose," she said, not hearing the low voices, "that Missy is at her nursery duties yet. Are you here, Dorla? I should think she might remember that you might sometimes be a little lonely, while she is busy in her new vocation."

Missy scorned to answer, but her mother said pleasantly: "Oh, she is here; her babies have been asleep some time."

"I'm not surprised. I don't believe Gabby's grief has kept her awake. That child has a heart like a pebble, small and hard. As to little Jay, he has the constitution and the endowments of a rat terrier, nothing beyond. I don't believe he ever will amount to anything more than a good, sturdy little animal."

"He will amount to a big animal, I suppose, if he lives long enough," said Missy, with a sharp intonation of contempt.

"Well, not very, if he copies his father. Gabby has all the cleverness. I should call Jay a dull child, as far as I can judge; dull of intellect, but so strong and well that it gives him a certain force."

"Aunt Harriet!" cried Missy, impatiently, "can't you leave even children alone? What have those poor little morsels done to you, that you should defame them so?"

"Done? Oh, nothing, but waked me up from my nap this afternoon. And, you know, deprived me and your mother of much of your soothing society for the past two months."

"I haven't begrudged Missy to them," said her mother, affectionately, drawing Missy's hand around her neck in the dimness. "I think the poor little things have needed a friend for a long while, and, alas, they need one now."

"It's my impression they're no worse off to-day than they were yesterday. There is such a thing as gaining by a loss."

Mrs. Varian put her hand over Missy's mouth; Miss Varian, annoyed by not being answered, went on with added sharpness:

"Goneril says the servants tell her all sorts of stories about the state of things between master and mistress in the house next door. I am afraid the poor man isn't to blame for snubbing her as he has done. They say she—"

"Oh, my dear Harriet," said Mrs. Varian, keeping her hand on Missy's lips, "don't you think it is a pity to be influenced by servants. It is difficult enough to tell the truth ourselves, and keep it intact when it goes through many hands; and I don't think that the ill-educated and often unprincipled people who serve us, are able at all to judge of character, and to convey facts correctly; do you? I don't doubt two-thirds of the gossip among our servants is without foundation. Imagine Goneril describing an interview between us; to begin with, she would scarcely understand what we said, if we talked of anything but the most commonplace things. She would think we quarreled, if we differed about the characters in a novel."

"Goneril! She would not only misunderstand, but she would misstate with premeditation and malice. That woman—" And on that perennial grievance, the lady's wrath was turned, as her sister-in-law meant it should be, and Missy's feelings were spared. She kissed her mother's hand secretly, and whispered "thank you."

CHAPTER VII.

MISRULE.

Mrs. Andrews died late in August. Late in September, one afternoon, Missy walked up and down at the foot of the lawn, and pondered deeply on the state of things. That anything could go on worse than things went on in the house next door, she felt to be improbable. That any children could be more neglected, more fretted, more injudiciously treated, she knew to be impossible. She did not mind it much that the servants plundered their master, and that waste and extravagance went on most merrily. But that her poor Jay should be reduced indeed to the level of a rat terrier, by the alternate coaxing and thwarting of the low creatures who had him in charge, was matter of different moment. It was very bad for Gabrielle, of course. But Gabrielle was not Jay, and that made all the difference. Still, even to save Gabrielle, Missy would have made a good fight, if she had known what way to go to work. The children were with her as much as ever; at least Jay was. Gabrielle was a little more restless under restraint, and a good deal more unfathomable than a month ago. She was intimate with one of the maids, and the Frenchman was in love with this maid, and petted and joked with Gabrielle, who seemed to carry messages between them, and to be much interested in their affairs. She was more contented at home, and less often came to look over Aunt Harriet's boxes of treasures and to be catechised by her as a return.

As to Jay, he was passionate and stubborn, and Missy's heart was broken by a fib he had just told her. The father came home at night, and always, she believed, asked for the children, and when they could be found, and made superficially respectable, they were brought to the table for a little while. But Jay fell asleep sometimes, with his head on the table-cloth, overcome with the long day's play. And Gabby, after she had got a little money out of his pocket, and a little dessert off his plate, preferred the society of the servants, and went away to them. In the morning, they rarely breakfasted with him. They were some times not up, and never dressed in time for that early meal. They took their meals before or after the servants, as those dignitaries found most convenient. Once, poor Jay wandered in hungry and cross at nine o'clock, and told Missy he had had nothing to eat, and that Gabby was dancing for the servants in the kitchen while they ate their breakfast. They made such a noise, Jay said, they made his head ache, and he acknowledged to kicking one of the women who wouldn't go and get him his breakfast, and being put out from the festive scene in disgrace. He ate muffins and omelette on Missy's lap, that morning, but it did not probably make the other mornings any better. No one could advise anything. Mrs. Varian could see no way out of it, and painful as it was, could suggest nothing but patience. It was manifestly not their business to offer any interference. St. John, his sister appealed to in vain. Except the interview on the evening of the wife's death, and the few moments' preceding the funeral services, there had been no communication between them. St. John had called, but Mr. Andrews had been away from the house at the moment. On Sundays, he did not go to church—on week days, he was in the city. St. John told his sister, very truly, it would be impertinence to force himself upon a person so nearly a stranger, and she quite agreed with him. But Jay!

"Why isn't he my child, and why can't I snatch him up and run away with him," she cried, tossing a handful of pebbles into the water and wrapping her cloak closer around her as she walked away from the beach-gate. She could not understand eloping with a man, but with her tawny-haired mannikin she could have consented to fly, she felt.

It was a high September tide; the water was lapping against the wall, the sky was blue, the wind was fresh. It was not yet sunset; she suspected there were visitors in the house; a carriage had driven up to the stable, from which she turned away her head, and which she resolved not to recognize. Hastily following a path that led up to the little wooded eminence that skirted the shore, she concealed her inhospitable thoughts and was out of sight of the house. "I don't really know who they were," she said to herself, when she was safe in the thicket. "So many people have bay horses, and I did not see the coachman. And how could I waste this glorious afternoon in the house? They will amuse Aunt Harriet, and I could not be with mamma if I were entertaining them. I am quite right in making my escape."

The little path was narrow and close; the thicket almost met above her head. It was very still in there; the wind could not get in, and only the sound of the waves, washing on the shore below, could.

"Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow—"

she sang in a low voice, as from a little child she had always sung, or thought, as she passed along this tangled path. To be sure, it had the disadvantage of being a low thicket of cedars, instead of a grove deep and high. And the far billow was a near wave, and a small one at that. But she had always had to translate her romance into the vernacular. She had grown up in tame, pastoral green ways, in a home outwardly and inwardly peaceful and unmarked; and her young enthusiasms had had to fit themselves to her surroundings, or she should have been discontented with them. A good deal of imagination helped her in this. She loved the scenes for their own sakes, and for the sake of all the romance with which they were interwoven. A sense of humor even did not interfere. She laughed at herself as she grew older; but she loved the places just as well, and went on calling them by their fictitious names.

Clouds of Michaelmas daisies bordered the path; purple asters crowded up among the dead leaves and underbrush. She liked them all; and the dear old path seemed sweeter and more sheltered to her than ever. Still, she felt a care and an oppression unusual to her; she could not forget little Jay, who was almost always at her side when she walked here. She crossed the little bridge, that spanned what had been a "ravine" to her in younger days; and climbing up the hill, stopped on the top of a sandy cliff, crowned with a few cedars and much underbrush. Here was the blue bay spread out before her; the neck of land and the island that closed in the bay were all in bright autumn yellow and red. Sweet fern and bayberry made the air odorous; the little purplish berries on the cedars even gave out their faint tribute of smell in the clear, pure air. There was a seat in the low branch of a cedar, just on the edge of the bank. Here she sat down and tossed pebbles down the sandy steep, and thought of the perplexing question—how to rescue Jay; and Gabby, too, in parenthesis. Gabby was always in parenthesis, but she was not quite forgotten.

Presently, on the still autumn atmosphere came the faint smell of a cigar. At the same moment, the crashing of a man's tread among the dry underbrush, in the opposite direction from whence she had herself come. Before she had time to speculate on the subject, Mr. Andrews stood before her, coming abruptly out of the thicket. He was as much surprised as she, and perhaps no better pleased. It was impossible for either to be unconscious of the last interview they had had just one month ago. Mr. Andrews' complexion grew a little darker, which was an indication that he was embarrassed, perhaps to find he was on the Varian's land; perhaps that he was confronting a young woman who did not approve of him; perhaps that he was confronting any young woman at all. Who knows—these middle-aged men with thick skins may have sensibilities of which no one dreams, and of which no one is desired to dream.

Miss Rothermel's ordinarily colorless cheeks were quite in a flame. She half rose from her cedar seat, and then irresolutely sat down again. Mr. Andrews threw away his cigar down the sand bank, and without looking irresolute, possibly felt so, as he paused beside her. Her first word sealed him in his resolution not to raise his hat and pass on, as he would have done in an ordinary place. It was quite in character for her to speak first.

"I didn't know you were in the country to-day," she said with embarrassment. "You do not stay up very often, do you?"

Then she thought she couldn't possibly have chosen a remark more personal and unwise. She did not like him to think she knew his habits, and speculated about them. But here, she had told him the first thing.

"No," he said, "I do not stay up very often. I came home to-day in the noon train to give the children a drive this afternoon; but I found when I reached home, that they had gone off with the servants on a picnic. Perhaps you knew about it? I own I was surprised."

"No," said Missy, flushing more deeply, "I did not know anything about it, till they had gone away, and I disapproved it very much; not that I have any right to approve or disapprove; but I am very fond of Jay—and—and—oh, Mr. Andrews, I wonder if you would think it unpardonable if I said something to you!"

Mr. Andrews may have doubted whether he should think what she had to say very agreeable; but he was too gentlemanly to intimate it. She looked so eager and interested, and it was all about his boy. So he said indefinitely, that she was only too good to the children, and it was impossible for him to think anything she said unpardonable.

Missy, with an underlying conviction that she was doing the precise thing that she had made up her mind not to do—rushed on with a hurried statement of the picnic facts; how Gabby had known the plan for two or three days, and had closely guarded the secret; how provisions had been put over night in the sail-boat, and the champagne carried down in the early dawn; and how dear little Jay, carried away by the tide of excitement, and tutored by the infamous maids, had actually told her a falsehood, and explained to her the night before that she need not look for him in the morning, for he should be in town all day with his papa, who was going to take him to the dentist. Mr. Andrews uttered an exclamation at this last statement, and ground his cane into the ground at the root of the cedar-tree. "Poor little Jay," said Missy, looking ready to cry. "Think what a course of evil he must have been put through to have been induced to say that. Gabrielle I am not surprised at. She isn't truthful. It doesn't seem to be her nature. I—I—didn't mean to say that exactly."

"You needn't mind," said her companion, bitterly. "I am afraid it is the truth."

"But Jay," said Missy, hurriedly, "is so sweet natured, and so clear and honest, I can't think how they could have made him do it. It only shows me how dreadful his temptations are, and how much he must go through when he is at home."

"I don't see how it can be helped," said the father with a sort of groan. "I can't be with them all the time; and if I were perhaps I shouldn't mend the matter. I suppose they must take their chance like others."

"Very well, if you are satisfied," she said stiffly.

"But I am not satisfied," he answered. "I should think I needn't assure you of that. But I feel helpless, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to part with the children just yet, you can understand that, no doubt. And yet I don't see what arrangement I can make to improve their condition at home. You must see it is perplexing."

"Will you let me tell you what to do," cried Missy, eagerly, twisting her fingers together as she spoke.

"Gladly," he returned, looking down at her.

"Turn away every servant in your house." He looked blank and dismayed.

"They are as bad a lot as ever were brought together," she said. "They are neither honest nor truthful, nor in any sense respectable. There is not one of them that is worth trying to reform. I don't wonder you are dismayed at the thought of change. Men do not know anything about such things, naturally; take my word for it, you cannot keep them without danger to your property, let alone your children."

"Are they worse than servants generally?" he said, helplessly. "I thought they were always dishonest; mine have always been ever since I have had a household."

"And we," said Missy, "have never had a dishonest servant in our house a week."

"You have been very fortunate then."

"No," she said; "only we have had common prudence, and have looked after them a little."

"Well," said Mr. Andrews, drawing a deep breath, "if I knew how to go to work, I would get rid of them all. But I don't really know anything about these matters."

"If it were in your business, you would know how to get rid of a dishonest clerk, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, that is a different matter. I could easily deal with the men in this case. But the women—well, really, you see it is uncomfortable. And I don't know how to get rid of them, or where to get any better if I do."

"Oh, that could be easily managed."

"Could it?" he said, earnestly. "Believe me, I would do anything to—to—render the fate of my children less unfortunate."

There was a touch of feeling in his voice that softened Missy.

"I wish you would be resolute about this then, and make the change at once. I could—mamma could tell you, perhaps, of good servants, and how to manage. Believe me, it isn't so hard sending off servants and getting new ones. I wish you were as angry with these as I am. You would not find it hard."

Mr. Andrews smiled a little, but it was faintly, and he looked perplexed.

"If I only knew what to do," he said again. "If you will tell me the way, I will walk in it."

"Well, in the first place," said Missy, nothing loth, "I would take the horses at once and drive over to Eel Creek, where I understand the picnic party are, and capture the children—they may not get home till midnight, for you see the wind is against them, and these men know nothing about sailing. No doubt they meant to be home long before this time, starting so early, but they are not in sight. I have been watching for them. Then bring the children to our house; we will take care of them till matters are settled. Then, you know, when the servants get home, after being detected in such a scrape as this, they can expect nothing but to be dismissed. I am sure they would be much surprised at any other ending of the adventure, and they will take it very quietly."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of them, I believe," said Mr. Andrews, with a smile. "Only I don't exactly know how to go about it. What have they done? What shall I say to them? Is going on a picnic without permission sufficient ground to dismiss them all at once?"

"The champagne is, and the claret—and the chickens—and the deceit—and the children—and the sail-boat!" exclaimed Missy, rather incoherently.

"I suppose you are right," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh. "They may well be glad to get off without any trouble."

"They may indeed. And if you call them together to-night, and speak severely to them, and tell them to pack their trunks and leave by the noon train to-morrow, they will think they have got off very easily."

"But what shall we do after they are gone?" asked Mr. Andrews, despondently.

"Oh, that is easy enough!" cried Missy, starting up and taking the path back to the house, her companion following her. "Mamma and I will take care of the children for a few days, till you are all settled. And there is an old servant of ours living in the village, who will go to you and take charge of things till you get your servants. She is quite capable—cooks well, and will do everything you need for a little while; and it is easy enough to get a man to look after the horses for a day or two, till you are suited with a coachman. One of the Rogers boys would do very well; they are honest, good people, all of them, and need work just now. They understand horses thoroughly; we had Tom ourselves for awhile. You needn't be afraid of them."

"They couldn't possibly be worse than Michael. I am sure I don't know how to thank you enough. The way really looks quite easy. But how about the new women? where am I to look for them?"

"Well, it depends," said Missy, "on what sort of service you want. Now, to be frank with you, Mr. Andrews, you have just twice as many servants as you need. But maybe you like to have a great many; some people do. I don't, you know. I can't bear to have a servant in the house who has no raison d'être. Half your servants have no reasonable excuse for being in your house, except that they want your money."

"I always wondered," said Mr. Andrews, humbly, "why we needed so many; but there seemed no way of being comfortable with less."

"You see it is a small house," said Missy; "the work of keeping it in order is not great. And in winter—but I don't suppose you mean to stay in winter?"

"Yes, I mean to stay this winter. I think no place could be better for the children, if I can get the proper people to take care of them."

"Well, then you want to get—first, a cook. I don't suppose you'll have much company?"

"None, probably."

"Then you do not want a very pretentious one. A good plain cook—unless you want a great many entrées and great variety."

"Oh, as to that, I am thankful if I get three courses. The present cook began bravely, but has been cutting me down steadily. Yesterday we had no soup, and the day before, boiled rice and raisins for dessert."

"Oh," exclaimed Missy, indignantly, "that is an outrage, indeed! Well, I think if you could be patient under that, you could get along with a plain cook."

"Why must she be a plain cook?"

"Because," said Missy, artlessly, "if she is a plain cook and doesn't understand entrées and all that, she will help in the washing, and it would be such a blessing if you did not have to have a fourth woman in the house."

Mr. Andrews looked bewildered, as he opened the gate for her to pass out.

"You see," said Missy, apologetically, "it is such a silly thing to have servants that you don't need. They are in each other's way in a small house. You need a good plain cook, and a waitress, and let these two do the washing and ironing. And then you need a nurse, or a nursery governess, a quiet, nice person, who will do everything for the children, including their mending. And then you need a coachman. And—well, of course you'll know whether it will be comfortable or not when you've tried it for a few weeks. But I am quite sure you will not lack anything that you have now, except disorder."

"I am sure of it," said Mr. Andrews, submissively.

"The most important of all," said Missy, as they crossed the lawn, "is the nurse—and I think I know the very person. I must ask mamma if she does not think she would do very well. She lives a mile or two out of the village; is a well brought up, well-educated girl, quite used to work, and yet quite capable of teaching. She has such a quiet, steady manner. I think her influence over the children would be so good. She manages her own little brothers and sisters well, I have noticed. Besides, she would probably come to you for very little more than the wages of an ordinary servant."

Missy colored after she said this. It seemed quite absurd for her to be economizing for her neighbor; but it was quite an involuntary action of her thrifty mind.

"I beg your pardon," she said, confusedly. "It seems very officious, but you know I can't help thinking it is a pity to spend money without thought. Mamma laughs at me, but I can't help feeling annoyed at seeing a great deal spent to save the trouble of a little thought. That is why people go on multiplying servants, and paying whatever may be asked for wages, because they do not want to give themselves the trouble of thinking and planning about it."

"I think you are quite right," said Mr. Andrews. "And I beg you will not imagine that my household extravagances are with intention. I have always regretted that I could not have things managed differently, but I could not find a way to do it."

This was dangerous ground, and Missy wished herself off it, particularly as it was humbling to find herself on such familiar, counsel-giving terms with this brutal husband; but, in truth, she had been quite carried away by the near prospect of Having Her Own Way. She looked a little confused, and was silent as they walked along. It did not seem to be unnatural or uncomfortable to be silent with Mr. Andrews, who was essentially a silent man. Just before they reached the house, she gave a last look back towards the bay.

"I do not see them," she said, "they are not yet inside the harbor. I should not wonder if you caught them before they start from Eel Creek. Probably they were all day getting there."

"You are right, and I ought to hurry."

"You know the road to Eel Creek?"

"Well, yes, I think so; I am not quite sure, but probably I can find it. I have a general idea."

"If there is any doubt, take one of our men with you."

"Thank you, that won't be necessary. I will inquire my way. Miss Rothermel, you have been very good—I don't know how I can thank you enough."

"Oh, as to that, don't thank me till you have got the other side of the trouble. Only don't give out—"

"You are afraid of me," he said with a smile. "Well, I acknowledge I am rather a coward, when it comes to the management of maid-servants. But I will be firm."

They had now got to the steps that led into the summer parlor, and as she turned to go up them, she gave a look at her companion, who was lifting his hat and passing on. He looked so stalwart and so invincible, that she believed he was anything but a coward, except where women were concerned. Somewhere, however, there must be a loose scale in his armor. He certainly was the sort of man tyrannized over easily by women.

"And yet," thought Missy, correcting the conviction, "in one case we know he was a brutal tyrant. But no matter. Anything to rescue Jay." So she gave him a pleasant smile, and told him they should wait tea for the children, and went into the house, while he walked rapidly towards the gate.

CHAPTER VIII.

A TEA TABLE TRUCE.

Two hours later, Mr. Andrews drove up to the door, in the darkness, with a pair of sleepy children, and a pair of restless horses, and a coachman feeling deeply the surreptitious claret and champagne. Missy, hearing the turbulent voice of Jay, ran to the door, accompanied by Ann. The bright light from the hall came flooding on the piazza as the door opened, and Missy, reaching out her arms to take the sleepy boy from his father, looked like a good angel, to his eyes. Gabby was following up the steps and whimpering audibly.

"You will have your hands full, Miss Rothermel, I am afraid," he said gloomily. "The children are very cross. But I am thankful that I took your advice. The carouse was not nearly over. I believe the children would have been drowned, if I had not gone for them. The creatures were just embarking for the return voyage, all as drunk as lords. Heaven knows what might have happened if they had got off. I ordered them on shore, and put the sail-boat in charge of the man who lives near the beach, and the wretches are to come home on foot. The walk may sober them a little."

"Poor little Jay," cried Missy, hugging him. He slapped her, and then began to roar with remorse and headache combined, and to throw himself back and try to fall out of her arms. They were now in the hall. His father, horrified, began to reprove him.

"Oh, don't," cried Missy, "poor little man. He is not responsible. To-morrow morning he'll be all right. Come, Gabby, take off your hat, child."

"I don't know what I should have done with them, if I had not had this refuge," said Mr. Andrews, looking careworn indeed.

"Oh, that is nothing," said Missy cheerily; "we are so glad to have them. And you, Mr. Andrews, mamma begs you will come in to tea."

"That will be impossible, I'm afraid; thank you very much," he said, looking anxiously back towards the door, whence came the sound of stamping horses, and an occasional mumbled ejaculation and a frequently snapped whip. "I have to look after the horses, and this man."

"Let Peters do that," said Missy, bent on her own way. She had determined to bury the hatchet and to have Mr. Andrews stay to tea. She felt it was a gracious thing to do, though rather hard, and having made up her mind to an act of magnanimity, objected to being thwarted.

"Mamma wants to see you," she said. "Besides, you have not had any dinner, and you will not probably get any at home, unless you cook it yourself. Let Peters go in and attend to the stable. It is the only thing to do."

"Perhaps you are right," he said, irresolutely "Well, as you are so kind, I will go home, and lock a few of the doors, and return in a moment."

As he drove off, Missy heard him say a word or two to the coachman, which convinced her he was not afraid of men servants, whatever he might be of maid servants. Ann was sent to call Peters. Gabby, who was really ill from over-eating and over-fatigue, was sent to bed in care of Goneril. Jay, who pleaded to stay up to tea, was allowed to lie on the sofa beside the fire, and get warmed after his long exposure to the night air. Missy covered him with an afghan, and kneeling down beside him, had just seen his eyes close in unconquerable sleep, when Mr. Andrews came in. He was half way across the room before her mother's "Missy!" started her to her feet. "Oh, I beg your pardon; I did not hear you. Mamma, let me present Mr. Andrews."

Mrs. Varian half rose from her sofa, and Mr. Andrews thought her lovely and gracious, as every one else did. He bowed to Miss Varian; and, no doubt, he thought they were all angels, as indeed he was excusable for thinking, coming from the dark and hopeless tangle of his own house. The cheer of the fire and the lamp, the odor of the flowers, the grace of the woman who had arisen to welcome him, the kindness of the one who had been kneeling beside his little outcast, the air of order, luxury, peace, all filled him with a sense that he had been living in another world, on the other side of the arbor-vitæ hedge. He was, as has been said, a silent man, and one of those straightforward men who never seem to think that they need to speak when they have nothing to say. He was not silent from shyness, but from simplicity of motive, from a native honesty; consequently, his silence was not oppressive, but natural. To-night, however, there was much to say. There were the details of the broken-up camp at Eel Creek, the various stages of hilarity and depression among the servants, the danger of the children, the probabilities of a slow march, the ludicrous side of the coming midnight court-martial. When they were ready to go in to tea, Missy stayed behind for an instant to tuck Jay's afghan about him and put a chair beside him, and to feel whether his pulse was quick. "Bless him," she whispered, giving him a kiss, "better days are coming."

The tea table was as graceful and pretty as possible; the things to eat rarely good, and Mr. Andrews, poor man, had been fasting all day. He despised lunch, and he hadn't had any chance to get a dinner; so no wonder he appreciated the tea that was set before him. Miss Varian was in a good humor, and quite sharp and witty, and whatever Mrs. Varian said, was always gracious and delightful. Miss Rothermel had enough to do to pour out the tea, and she was quite satisfied with the march of events, including Mr. Andrews' appetite, and the complexion of the waffles. She thought of the soupless dinner he had mentioned, and of the alms-house provision of boiled rice and raisins, and she felt for a moment, what bliss to keep house for a man with such an appetite and no ascetic tendencies. St. John was a continual trial to her. But then she checked herself sharply, and thought how deceitful appearances were, and how cruel had been the lot of the woman who had kept house for him, till alas, a month ago exactly. It was a bitter commentary on her fate, that he was able to enjoy broiled oysters so unblushingly within thirty days of his bereavement. Happily, behind the tea-kettle, Missy's dark frown was hidden; but she soon threw it off; she had made up her mind to be amiable for this one evening, and she would not break her resolution.

After tea, when they were again around the parlor fire, St. John came in. The sight of him changed the expression of the guest's face; the care-worn look came back, and a silence. Before very long, he said, rising, that he must go home, and make ready for the reception of the criminals. This was plainly a thing that ought to be done, and Mrs. Varian had been thinking so for half an hour. St. John went with him to the door, and Missy heard Mr. Andrews say, as they parted on the piazza: "I have wanted to see you. I hope you don't think that, because our interview was what it was, I shrink from further acquaintance. Perhaps I should have gone to you, and said this. I hope you will take it now. You can understand how hard it is for me to say this."

"I do understand," said St. John earnestly; "and I hope that the painful association will not interfere with our future intercourse. Perhaps I should have gone to you, and said this."

She lost what followed—an irreparable loss. She had been standing at the window, which was open, behind the curtain, and could not have helped hearing what they said.

"Rather a high and mighty penitent," she said to herself, indignantly, going over his words in her mind. "And St. John is so young, and so—well, I am afraid he's weak. It is natural for people to be weak when they are young. He seemed only anxious to propitiate him. I suppose he hopes in that way to get an influence over him. Of course, it must be hard to stand up against a man of double his own age; but I should think being a priest would give him courage."

At this time, Jay woke up, and, in taking him to bed, she missed St. John's return to the parlor, and the remainder of his visit. "Mamma, what do you think of him?" she said, sitting down beside her mother's sofa late that night.

"I rather like him," was the answer.

"Yes, if one could forget everything. I think he is gentlemanly, and unobjectionable in manner—almost pleasing. But I suppose I ought not to forget what I know of his cruel neglect, and of the almost tragic end of it."

"Of course, that seems terrible—but—"

"But, mamma!" cried Missy, "I scarcely expected you to say that. Oh, how true it is, women are cruel to each other. Think—you know nothing in favor of Mr. Andrews. Everything in his disfavor: nothing against Mrs. Andrews: everything in her favor, and yet you say, 'I rather like him; all this is very terrible—but—'"

"Well, you know I had never seen the wife. You are influenced by admiration for her. I am influenced by something that attracts me in the husband. We really, Missy, do not know much of the lives of either of them."

"I know that she was neglected, left alone. That for days together she never saw her husband. That his manner, on receiving the news of her death, was more stolid and indifferent than mine would have been on being told of the sudden and suffering death of a total stranger. I know that she hated, feared him. And she was impulsive, quick, and probably warm-hearted."

"Probably, Missy? Well, I don't want to wound you—but—but her children did not seem very dear to her."

"Mamma, when one is suffering as she was, naturally, to an undisciplined nature, life centers where the suffering is. You cannot think of anything else. You just cry out, and bend your mind upon getting through with your pain as best you may, unless you have learned the higher lesson, which of course I know she hadn't. She had not in any sense learned the uses of her sufferings; I don't deny that. But who heaped those sufferings upon her? Who failed to make her better, if she was not perfect, child as she was, compared with him? Think of the difference in their ages. Oh, it makes me bitter to think of it. No, nothing can excuse him, nothing."

"It is hard to say that. Wait till we know both stories."

"Those we never shall know. She can't tell us any more of hers, poor soul, and he never will, you may be sure. Or, if he did, I should not feel bound to believe him. I assure you, I am not impressed with him as you are."

"He seems very tender towards his children."

"Yes, tender, but weak and irresolute. Possibly a little remorseful; we don't know how long this will last. He is undoubtedly sorry he broke their poor mother's heart, as sorry as such a stout, stolid thing can be, and he doesn't want the children to be drowned by the servants, or taught to swear or steal, just now, at any rate. He is willing to second our efforts to save them. He will not oppose us, at any rate. You must acknowledge it wouldn't look well, if he did."

"Now, Missy, you are uncharitable."

"No, mamma; you are over-charitable; this plausible gentleman has so worked upon you. Really I—I hate him. I always have, and your taking him up so only increases my aversion."

"Excuse me. My taking him up is imaginary."

"Oh, no, mamma, believe me, you have taken his side, unconsciously to yourself. And, equally unconsciously, you have, from the very first, set yourself against her, and deplored my infatuation. I have always seen it."

"I confess that some things you told me prejudiced me against her. I felt that her personal attraction must be great to make you overlook them."

"You mean her telling me things against her husband, even as early as our first interview."

"And her indifference to her children, Missy, and her great egotism."

"I can understand, mamma, how this would strike you. I am quite sure if you had known her, you would not have wondered, or blamed; you would only have pitied. She spoke to me because she saw my friendship, and because, poor soul, she had seen no one but the servants for weeks or months. I shouldn't have wondered if she had told me her whole history the first time that I saw her."

"But she never did tell you her whole history, Missy. You know nothing of it really, notwithstanding all the time you spent with her."

"And that you find against her! Really, mamma, you are hard to please. You reproach her for telling me so much, and you distrust her because she did not tell me more."

"Vague accusations, and complaints of injustice are easily made, Missy. I should think we were in a better position to judge of matters, if you had ever had a plain story of her life and its wrongs given to you."

"I wish, for your sake, that I had; but perhaps it was more noble in her to die without doing it. I am afraid, mamma, we shall never think alike about this. But if you can't sympathize with me, at least do not try me by too much approbation of this man. I will bear anything in reason; but if you and Aunt Harriet and St. John all continue to pay homage to him as you did to-night, I shall think it rather trying."

"Oh, as to that, I think we were only civil; and you were quite as amiable as we—which, my dear, you must continue to be, if you hope to keep any hold over Jay's fate. Poor little fellow! do not, by an unnecessary show of rancor, throw him back into the arms of Alphonsine and Bridget."

"That is the only thing," said Missy, crossing the room to fasten the window for the night. "I mean to get my own way about him; and I only hope it will not involve speaking many more words, good or bad, to his father."

CHAPTER IX.

THE SWEETS OF VICTORY.

The next morning a little note came from Mr. Andrews. It was addressed to Missy.

"Dear Miss Rothermel—

"The woman named Alphonsine is very penitent, and begs to stay. Do you think I might allow her?

Very truly yours,

"James Andrews."

Missy dashed off a reply on the other side of his sheet of paper in pencil.

"Don't keep her on any account. She is the worst of them all.

A.R."

As Missy twisted this up and handed it to the messenger, Mrs. Varian rather anxiously asked to see it. "Don't you even put it in an envelope?" she said glancing over the meagre slip. "Your notes are generally so nice; this doesn't look like you, and is hardly civil."

"Business is business," said Missy, twisting it up again, and going out to give it to the messenger. "I don't think it is worth while to waste monograms and London paper on such matters as these."

"What sudden thrift! Where are the children?"

"I am going to look for them," said Missy, drawing on her gloves. "I want to get them out of the way, and keep them safe, till the hegira is over. I haven't much faith in Mr. Andrews' having the nerve to do it; but perhaps I don't do him justice. If they are not all got off by the noon train to-day, I shall know it will never be done."

Missy carried the children out with her in the pony-wagon; she even took Mr. Andrews' intentions to be so probable of execution, that she went two or three miles inland to see the woman whom she had fixed upon in her own mind, as the successor to Alphonsine in the care of the children. She even stopped at the tin-man's, in the village, to get the address of a good substantial cook, whom she knew to be out of place, who had a settled reputation for bread-baking, and an honorable record in the matter of soup. She did not say for whom she wanted her—she was a little ashamed of taking it for granted, that her advice would be acted upon. All the same, it was as well to be prepared. She even drove to a house in one of the bye-streets of the village, to see if a certain Ellen, whose black eyes and white aprons had always met her approval, was still out of a situation. All these were at her command—cook, waitress, and nurse. It was fascinating to have everything go so smooth. How delightful to have your own way; how heavenly to make people carry out your plans. Through it all there ran one little thread of doubt as to the steadfastness of Mr. Andrews; this only gave the matter zest. She felt as if it were quite a stirring little vaudeville; it wasn't worth while to make tragedy out of it, and get angry if she were disappointed—but altogether she liked it. She liked driving about with her brisk little pony on a bright September morning like this, doing her errands, giving her orders, having people come out smiling to their gates to speak to her. She liked all this, even when it was only her own errands she did, and her own ordinary housekeeping that she looked out for. It was a pleasure to secure the best butter and the freshest eggs, and to drive to pretty, cool-looking farm-houses for them; to go for cornmeal and graham flour just ground, to a romantic-looking old mill by the edge of the woods, where the drip of the water and the shade of the trees made a perpetual cool. People who had things to sell were always glad to see her, for she bought a great many things and paid a good price for them. She was often called upon for favors and for advice, and this pleased her. The sight of the pretty little carriage was a signal for many an inhabitant of farm-house or village, to come out to the roadside and have a consultation with the young lady who drove it. She was a favorite, and it is pleasant to be important—and to have your own way. She generally had hers, even about other people's matters, for it was a very good way, and a good way presented in such a manner as was convincing. Of course, she had her disappointments; the clam-man's daughter did, on one occasion, marry the scallop-man's son, against her advice—but they came to such speedy grief, that it more than consoled her. The miller's wife was not willing, last Spring, to listen to reason about her butter, and so had lost all market for it among the people who paid high prices, and had to carry it, finally, to the "store," and take what she could get for it. Missy lost the butter, but she had the satisfaction of knowing, that the next year her advice would be promptly taken. All these things were sweet to her, but how much sweeter it was to be feeling that she was managing completely a household in which she had no legitimate business to interfere; that she was putting to rout a troop of worthless servants who had opposed her, and ill-treated her darling Jay. Above all, that she was making a very weak-kneed master stand firm. Oh, if she could be sure that he would stand firm! It was this doubt, that made her feel as if it were all genteel comedy, and really quite exciting.

The children were pretty good that morning, notwithstanding the orgies of the night before. Gabrielle was subdued and a little ashamed, and Jay's memory was not burdened with any remorse, nor had he missed his sleep, nor omitted to make a very good breakfast in his new quarters. He was burly and jolly and good as ever. He liked the drive, and the stops, and the fresh cool breeze, and the bright September sunshine, and the holding the whip in his hand.

The roadside was bright with golden-rod and purple asters, the Virginia creeper was turning red on the fences and over the trees where it had flung itself; catbrier, shining and glossy, cedar dark and dusky, sumach red and brown, all in mat and tangle of the luxuriant summer's growth, clothed the banks that edged the road. Jay stretched out his hand to catch the bright leaves when they passed near them; the bottom of the carriage was filled with branches of red leaves, with bunches of Michaelmas daisies and asters already withering in the sun.

Missy looked at her watch; it was just noon. Her heart beat high. They were on the road that led to the station. If the servants were sent off by the midday train, they must meet them in the course of a few moments. She now began to doubt whether it had not all fallen through. It was impossible to say how she despised Mr. Andrews when she thought it might be that he had given in. Every rod of road they passed over added to this conviction. She looked at her watch again. If they did not meet them within five minutes there was no further hope.

"What's the matter, Missy; why do you pull the pony so?" said Jay, looking up into her face. They were going down a hill, where the road was narrow, deep and sandy. At this moment they heard the lumbering, and caught sight of a heavy vehicle coming up the hill towards them.

"It's the stage!" cried Gabby, growing interested. "And there's Léon, and there's Bridget, and there's Alphonsine, and all of 'em."

Jay at this news set up a great shout, and started to his feet.

"Sit down, Jay," cried Missy; "don't you see there isn't room for the stage to pass. I tell you to be quiet." Missy had her hands full in managing Jay, and getting the pony out of the road, with his head up into the bushes. This was the only part of the narrow road where they could pass, so she had to draw up on one side, and wait while the heavy stage crawled up the hill. The information was soon telegraphed through the gloomy ranks, which presented a sullen front. The stage was driven by one Moses, who had always driven it since any one could remember. He sat bent up like a bow, with years of long and lazy driving; his hat pushed a little back on his head. He nodded indifferently to Missy. It was all he did to any one, so no one could complain. Beside him sat Léon, dark and scowling; behind them sat Michael, red and wrathful; behind him again, the dismissed cook, laundress, nurse, and last of all, Alphonsine. It was the wreck of a household, indeed. Missy felt a momentary elation when she saw them all together. She had not realized how many there were, before, and to what a complete rout she had put them. It was rather awkward, drawing up by the roadside, and having them all pass in review before her, as it were; but it could not be helped—the condition of a Long Island road never can be helped. A heavy wagon, driven by one of the sons of Moses, the stage-driver, filled with the trunks of the departing servants, crawled on after the stage. The boy was rather rakish-looking; he sat on one of the trunks and smoked a very bad cigar, which he was not at the pains to remove from his mouth when he approached the lady. She glanced quickly at the trunks, and a wandering wish passed through her mind that she might see the inside of them, and estimate roughly the degree to which the master had been plundered. She cast her eyes down after this, or only allowed them to rest on her pony, who did not like being crowded up into the bushes, and did not stand quite still. It is very possible that all might have gone well, if Jay could have behaved himself decently; but his old wrath returned when he saw Michael, and saw him from a friend's side.

"Hurrah!" he shouted, getting on his feet on the seat. "Hurrah! You have got sent away, and it was because you got drunk, and was bad yesterday, and I am glad of it, I am."

Michael was too angry and too much the worse for the last night's revel, to control himself. "You little devil," he cried, and shook his fist at the boy.

Even then, if the boy could have been subdued, it is possible that the habit of decent silence before their betters, would have kept them all quiet till they were out of hearing of the party in the pony carriage. They all knew or suspected that Missy was their enemy, but she was dignified, and no word had ever broken their habit of respect to her. She flushed up and tried to keep Jay quiet, and did not look towards the stage, now floundering through the sand alongside. But she had also the pony to keep under, and he required both hands. Jay did not like to be called a little devil, and there was no one to stop him, except by counsel, which he did not ever much regard; he made a dash with the whip, and lurching forward, struck towards Michael with all his small might. The end of the lash, fine and stinging, reached that person's red, and sun-scorched cheek.

"I'll teach you to call me little devil," cried Jay, as he dealt the blow.

A howl of rage escaped the man, though it must have hurt him very little. He made a spring for Jay. The stage was going so slowly it was not difficult for him to leap from it and land beside the little carriage. Moses pulled up, much interested. Moses' son, behind, pulled up, interested quite as much. Michael caught the boy with a fierce hand. Missy leaned forward, exclaiming, "Don't touch the child. I forbid you. Don't touch him, unless you want to get yourself in trouble!"

A chorus of indignation burst from the crew in the stage. Michael, backed by this, shook the child fiercely in her very lap, boxed his ears, with one brutal hand after the other, and then hurled him back upon her, and swung himself into the stage again. A shower of coarse and horrid words assailed poor Missy's ears, as she caught him in her disengaged arm. It had never been her luck before to be assailed by an Irish tongue, loosed from the decency of servitude. She had never had "words" with any of her mother's servants. This was quite a new experience. She was white to her fingers' ends. Jay did not cry. He was white too. Not cowed, but overpowered by brute strength, and stunned by the blows he had got. Missy never knew exactly what they said; some horrid words always stuck in her memory, but it was all a confused hideous jumble besides. The women's tongues were the worst, their voices the shrillest, the things they said the ones that stuck in the memory most. Moses was so interested he sat open-mouthed and gazed and listened. His son, infinitely delighted, gazed and listened too. At last, Missy found voice to say, above the general babel:

"Moses, will you drive on, and let me pass? You will lose the train if you don't go at once."

This recalled to him the fact that he had the mail-bag at his feet, and losing the train meant losing the patronage of the Government of the United States.

"By Jingo, that's a fact!" said Moses, gathering up the reins, and calling out "gee-up" to the lean horses, who had been very glad to rest. The stage lumbered on, and left the pony-carriage free to move, after the baggage-wagon should have passed. But the baggage-wagon was driven by Moses' son, and he had no desire to shorten or renounce the fun. He did not carry the United States mail. He was probably not unfamiliar with Billingsgate, and was not shocked, only pleasantly excited, by the language employed. He even hurrahed a little, and laughed, and struck his hands upon his knees, as Jay was pitched back into the carriage, white and silenced. He liked a fight exceedingly, he did—any kind of a fight.

As the stage moved on, and the viragoes leaned back and shook their fists at the little carriage, and the two men roared back their imprecations at it, he had not the heart to move on, and let the pony out into the road. He knew how the little beast would dash away out of sight down the hill, under Miss Rothermel's whip; they would be out of hearing in a second. No, he couldn't do a thing like that. It wasn't in him to spoil a fight. He laughed, and threw himself astride of the trunk, but didn't touch the reins, and didn't stir a step aside from blocking up the road. So it was that Missy got the full force of the parting maledictions; so it was that she got the full tide of Irish, mixed with the finer-grained shafts of French invective; so it was that she knew that Alphonsine had read the little note that she had sent in that morning to the relenting master, and that she was assured that she had made an enemy for life.

"We'll be aven wid ye yet!" cried Bridget.

"Mademoiselle shall hear from the 'worst of them all' again," sneered Alphonsine, darting a malignant look at her, from under her dark brows.

Then, and not till then, did the young driver of the luggage-wagon "gee-up" to his horses and move on, puffing the smoke from his villainous cigar into the faces of the pony-carriage party, as he passed them, and looking infinitely content as he jolted on. He was not aware that he had done anything insolent or malicious. He did not know that the smell of his cigar, and the keen amusement of his look, had been the last, and perhaps most cutting, of the insults she had received. These wretches who had just disappeared from her presence were strangers and foreigners, so to speak; but this low boy represented her home, her village, her place of influence. Poor Missy! that was a bitter hour. Her vaudeville was ending in a horrid rout and rabble; she was sore and sick with the recollection of it. She had been dragged through the mud on the field where she had felt sure of triumph. What was the triumph, compared to the mud? She had succeeded in having them sent away; but they had humiliated her, oh! most unspeakably. The degradation of having to listen to such words, and to sit, impotent and silent before them, while they raged and reviled her!

The pony dashed down the hill. They were out of sight of the place of their defeat in a moment of time; but she felt as if never, never could she get out of sight of their leering faces, out of hearing of their horrid words.

When they were at the bottom of the hill and had turned into the main road, Jay began to recover from the shock and fright, and to tremble and cry. Gabrielle never took her eyes off Missy's face; she was full of speculation, but such experiences were not as new to her as to Missy. She, however, remembered, almost as well as Missy did, all those insolent words, and, though not understanding them fully, kept them in mind, and interpreted them in the light of events.

"Don't cry, Jay," Missy said mechanically. But she was so shaken she could scarcely speak. She wanted to get home and think it over; to get out of day-light, to get breath and recover her voice again, and her self-respect, her power of feeling herself a lady.

Jay's continued crying tortured her; Gabby's eyes on her face angered her. She was trembling all over. She had not made up her mind about anything, only that everything was horrid and degrading, and that she wished she had never seen or heard of any of the name of Andrews—even little Jay.

As they approached the gate she saw that Mr. Andrews was walking slowly up and down before his house, evidently watching for them. She tried to drive quickly and pass him with a bow, but he came up beside them as they passed through the gate, and she had to pull up the pony and go slowly. He walked beside the carriage and took Jay's hand, which was stretched out to him.

"Well, I've got them all off," he said, with a sigh of relief.

"We saw 'em all," cried Gabby, always glad to impart information. "We saw 'em all; and, oh, such a time as we have had!"

"Michael beat me, and beat me," burst out Jay, quite broken down at the thought of being sympathized with.

"And, oh, the things they said to Missy!" exclaimed Gabby.

"And he called me a little devil, and I'll kill him!" cried Jay, beginning to sob.

While these side-lights were being thrown upon the occurrence, Mr. Andrews looked anxiously at Missy, who was growing red and white, and trembling very visibly.

"Be silent, children," he said impatiently. "You have had some trouble, Miss Rothermel, I am afraid."

By this time they had reached the house; Missy threw down the reins, which Mr. Andrews caught.

"I hope nothing has happened to distress you," he said.

She did not wait to give Jay to his father, but getting out very quickly, and not noticing the hand that he offered her, said, in a voice not very steady, "I don't want to talk about it. It makes me ill to think of it. Call Peters, won't you, to take away the pony," ran up the steps and disappeared into the house. In another minute she would have cried.

He took the children out and drove the pony up to the stable. The children followed him, and he spent half an hour with them on the beach, trying to extract from them the history of the morning. It was rather difficult to get at the facts, but he got at enough to make him feel much disturbed in mind. The servant soon came down to take the children in to dinner, and to ask him to come in, too. But this he declined, wisely judging that his presence would not be very welcome now. He went back to his empty house, put the key in his pocket, and drove down to the village inn to get something to eat.

Late in the afternoon he went back to Mrs. Varian's, to ask for the counsel which had been before so freely offered him. He felt quite helpless, and could not move a step in reconstructing his household till he had been told what to do. The afternoon was quite clear, and since the sun had set, the fire on the hearth in the library looked very cheerful. The servant let him into that room. There he found the children playing together a game of checkers, and Goneril watching them. Ann went up-stairs to summon Miss Rothermel, but returned presently to say that Miss Rothermel was lying down with a severe headache, and begged that Mr. Andrews would excuse her. Miss Varian, who was in the adjoining parlor, dozing in a big arm-chair, roused at the sound of voices, and called to Goneril to come and lead her into the library. It was always an amusement to have a visitor, and she asked Mr. Andrews to sit down again, which he was very ready to do—his own house at present being a very uncheerful place to sit down in. She chatted briskly with him, and praised the children liberally. This surprised the children, who stopped their game to listen. They were much more used to hearing themselves scolded by Miss Varian. Then she came to the condition of his household, and asked him many questions. He was obliged to be very frank, and to tell her that he had sent the servants all away, according to Miss Rothermel's advice, and that now he was waiting further orders.

"Well, it's too bad," cried Miss Varian, with a laugh. "Missy has got you into this fix, and she's bound to help you out of it. I won't hear to her going to bed, and leaving you to starve. Why, what a predicament you're in! Where did you get your dinner?"

Mr. Andrews said he had had a very fair meal at the hotel, and seemed anxious to make the best of his position. "But who milks the cows, and takes care of things at the stable? Horses can't be locked up like chairs and tables."

"Oh!" answered Mr. Andrews, "Peters has found a very decent man for me. I feel quite satisfied about the horses and cows; and if it were not for imposing these children upon you, I should not be in any trouble about the house. It's more comfortable now than it has been for some time, I assure you."

"All the same," said Miss Varian, "there is no sense in your being kept in this unsettled state, just because Missy chooses to set up a headache. It's a new thing for her; she isn't the kind of young woman that goes to bed with a headache whenever she's put out. It's a wonder to me what has happened to disturb her. She was well enough at breakfast, but wouldn't come down to her dinner. I never knew her to stay away from dinner for a headache, or any such nonsense before. Goneril shall go up and see why she can't come down."

"I beg you won't take any trouble about it," said Mr. Andrews, much disturbed. "I am sure she is ill, she looked very pale. I would not have her annoyed for anything. If it is not asking too much of you all, to bear with the children, I will try to get some kind of a household together to-morrow. I have no doubt I could hear of some one in the village, or I could go to the city in the morning and get some at an office."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Miss Varian, fervently. "That would break Missy's heart, for she has been longing to get these creatures away. And you wouldn't be likely to get any better. You know men are always imposed upon."

"That is true," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh.

"Missy went to see about a cook this morning," put in Gabrielle, who had renounced her game and crept up to hear the talking. "And a waitress too. She said she had heard of a place for them, but she didn't say where. Maybe it was for you, papa."

"Maybe," said her father, absently.

"Alphonsine said in the stage this morning that she seemed to take a great interest in your affairs, you know."

"Hush!" said her father, with emphasis.

"How's that? Who's Alphonsine? Your nurse? And what did she say?" asked Miss Varian, with keen interest.

"Some impertinence of the servants after they were sent away, I suppose," said Mr. Andrews, threatening Gabrielle with a look.

"Did Missy hear it?" asked Miss Varian, persisting.

"Papa says I mustn't tell," returned Gabrielle, hesitating.

"Oh," said Miss Varian, sharply. "It is always well to obey one's father."

"Gabrielle makes a great deal out of a very little," said Mr. Andrews, suppressing his annoyance. "She has had the misfortune to be a great deal thrown upon the care of servants. I shall be glad to get her into different ways."

"She ought to be sent to boarding-school," said Miss Varian.

"I am afraid you are right; I must look about for a school for her in the course of the next few months."

Gabrielle gave Miss Varian a very bitter look, but Miss Varian was none the worse for that. Mr. Andrews now arose to go, but Miss Varian protested he should not go till Missy had sent down the addresses of the persons she had recommended.

"I won't have you kept in such a state for anybody's caprice," she said, sending Goneril up with a message. And then Mr. Andrews knew that Miss Varian did not love her step-niece.

"Missy is very fond of managing," she said. "She must understand she can't lay down the reins whenever she chooses. She must carry out what she undertakes."

Goneril was gone a very long time, it seemed to Mr. Andrews; he really thought he was having a great deal of petticoat government. If it were not for the two children, he would have got clear of the whole sex, he thought. He would have taken bachelor apartments, and had not even a chamber-maid. He would have gone to a club for his meals, and not have spoken to a woman from year's end to year's end. But there was poor little Jay, with his tawny hair all unkempt, and his saucy sister with her sash ends in a tangle; for their sakes he must be grateful to these kind and dictatorial friends. Certainly he could not do without women while he had those two to care for. He must get used to women, he supposed; get to be half a woman himself; learn how to keep house; be a perfect Betty. He groaned, patiently, while Miss Varian kept up a brisk talk about his matters.

At last Goneril came back. Goneril was much interested in his matters too. She was so much interested, and so zealous, that he was quite abashed. He wondered how many more women would be needed to put his affairs en train. Goneril was a very tall, well-built woman, with an energetic tread. She had her own views on most matters, and was not withheld from uttering them by any false delicacy about a menial position. Wasn't she the daughter of an American farmer? So, when she came down to deliver Miss Rothermel's message, she added many of her own observations to the message, and quite bewildered Mr. Andrews. He did not know which was the original text, and which the comment on it; and Miss Varian's cross-fire did not render matters simpler.

"Here's the names of the persons Miss Rothermel was speaking of," Goneril said, giving him the paper; "and the places where you'll find 'em. But my opinion is, you'll have your trouble for your pains, if you go hunting up Melinda Larkins. She'll never come to you. She won't undertake to live in a family where there isn't anybody to look after things. Things go wrong in every house, more or less; but where there's only Help, the troubles are laid to the wrong door, and you never know what you'll be accused of."

"That is," said Miss Varian, sharply, "bad as a mistress is, it's worse without a mistress."

"I don't know anything about mistresses," retorted Goneril, with a toss of the head. "People that you live with may call themselves anything they like. That don't make 'em so. They might call themselves em-presses and prin-cesses, but it wouldn't make 'em so."

"And servants might call themselves Help, but that wouldn't make them so. As long as they draw their wages for the work they do, they are servants, and nothing more nor less than servants."

Poor Mr. Andrews felt as if he had got into a very hot fire, and as if, somehow, he were guilty of having lighted it.

"I ought to be going to see about these—persons—I suppose; if I can get them to-night it will be all the better," he said, rising, while the discussion about titles was still raging.

"Well, you won't get anybody on such short notice that's worth having," Goneril interrupted herself to say. "Melinda Larkins wouldn't think of taking a place, without going over to the island to see her folks about it. She has some self-respect, if she is obliged to live out."

"If she is obliged to go into service, you mean," said Miss Varian. "There won't be much difficulty about your getting her, Mr. Andrews, I am sure. All these people are very poor, and will do anything for money."

"Money isn't everything," began Goneril; but Mr. Andrews had got to the hall.

"I can but go and see about them," he said, as he made his bow.

He heard a rage of tongues as he closed the door. He felt as if the flames were shooting out after him and scorching his very eyebrows.

He drew a long breath when he was out of hearing of the house, and under the trees in the night air. What bliss a world without women would be. Here he was embroiled with three, after his brave fight of the morning too, which should have won him their applause. There was no pleasing them, and their tongues—their tongues. Pleased or displeased, he asked nothing better than to get away from them. He thought for a rash moment that he would steal Jay and go away with him to some monastery, and leave Gabby to her fate. But, poor little Gabby, he was sorry for her, even if she did love to impart information and to make mischief. Yes, he must stay by them, poor little mites, and try to help them out of their dismal plight. So he went to the stable, and saddled his horse, and threw a severe order or two to the decent man, of whom he was not afraid.

Then he rode into the jaws of fate, to see Melinda Larkins, who couldn't make up her mind in a minute; to see the one proposed as nursery maid, who wasn't in; to see the waitress, who asked him a great many questions that he couldn't answer. "What part of the wash would be hers? What evening could she have? Who was to get tea Sunday when the cook was out? Was there to be a regular dinner for the children in the middle of the day, and a regular dinner again at night?"

To all these questions, and many more as puzzling, Mr. Andrews could give no well considered answer. He felt the necessity of appearing to know a little about the ordering of his household; his dealings with men had taught him that ignorance is fatal to authority, and strangely and sadly as the sexes differed, there must be some general points of resemblance. It would not do to let this trim young creature, with her black eyes and her white apron, respectful as yet, standing at the gate in an attitude of attention, know that he had never known who did the wash in his house, or whether there was a regular dinner in the middle of the day, or whether the cook ever went out, or how many evenings belonged to the waitress. He said rather lamely that he had only come to see if she were disengaged; he had not time to talk these details over. If she were at liberty, she might come the next morning at ten, and he would make final arrangements with her.

She respectfully consented to this, but it is highly probable that she saw through the maneuver, and knew that "time" was what her future master wanted, and that there was a good deal in her catechism that was new to him. He knew, or feared this knowledge on her part, and went slowly away on his milk-white steed, much humbled and perplexed.

The decent man took his horse and cared for it, but he let himself into the house with a feeling of his helplessness. He had matches, thanks to being a smoker, but he did not know how to fill a lamp, and of course all the lamps were empty. Every one knows that a candle does not give a cheerful light in a wide room. So he tried two candles, but they blinked at each other feebly, they were almost worse than one. It was almost impossible to read the evening paper; he would conclude it was time to go to bed. So he poured himself out a glass of wine, not having the heart (or the chance) to eat a meal, and went up-stairs. His bed had not been made; there was no water in the pitchers. The windows had been closed, and the room was not fresh. He made up his mind that he could not sleep there; he went into another room, entering into a calculation how many nights the beds would last, and when he should have to take to the sofas.

Another day dawned on this anarchy. He had no hot water for his shaving; he did not know where fresh towels were, the keys of the closets being all at the bottom of the cistern. (A parting shot of malice from Alphonsine, though he did not know it.) After a wretched bath, with towels in which he had no confidence, he went out into the damp morning, and getting on his horse, went down to the village barber, and then to the village inn for breakfast.

"This thing must not go on any longer," he said with firmness—but what use was there in being firm? He was helpless. What part of the wash did the waitress do? And what would bring Melinda Larkins to decision? And what questions would the nursery-maid elect be likely to ask him? He ground his teeth. A plague upon them all. He had made a fortune and lost it with less rack of brain than this business had occasioned him. If Miss Rothermel only would get over her little temper and come forward to the rescue. He couldn't blame her for being so indignant, but she needn't have vented it on him, who was not in the least to blame. There was the waitress coming at ten, and he had no answers to give her to her questions. He had not the face to go to the Varians' house again, indeed, he had not the courage, for Miss Varian and her iron maid were more likely to confront him than Missy was, who mightn't yet be through with her headache.

He rode slowly back from the village after breakfast, reflecting deeply. As he turned into the stable, he saw the welcome sight of Missy, in her shade-hat, going into the greenhouse, with a basket and some scissors. If he could only get her to talk to him for five minutes, all might be got into right shape. But what sort of a humor was she in? She had not the children with her—that was a bad sign. The dampness of the early morning had passed away, and the sun had come out bright, though the dew was thick on the grass. He hurried across the lawn and entered the garden. Missy was busy at the door of the greenhouse, with a vine that seemed not to meet her approbation. Her basket stood at her feet, half-full of the late blooming flowers that she had picked in the garden as she came along.

"Good morning, Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews, rather irresolutely, pausing behind her. She had not heard his approach, and started. He felt that it was unwarrantable, his coming in this way into the garden; but starvation and perplexity and want of shaving-water will drive a man to almost anything. If he had gone to the house she would have refused to see him. If she refused to speak to him now, he should simply hang himself. She looked quite haughty as she faced him; but he looked so troubled and so humbled, it was impossible to be haughty long.

"I hope you'll excuse my coming to bother you again," he said; "but upon my word, I don't know how I am going to get my matters straight without some help from you. I know it is quite unjustifiable, and you have quite a right to tell me so."

"No," said Missy, with rigid honesty, "I offered you my advice. I remember that quite well. I have only myself to blame if you give me any trouble."

"And I am sure I needn't tell you how very sorry I am about the occurrence of yesterday. I would have done anything to have saved you that annoyance."

But Mr. Andrews saw that he'd better have left the subject alone. All the softening vanished from her expression.

"No one was to blame for that," she said. "It need never be thought of again." But it was evident the recollection of it had put her back into her armor.

Mr. Andrews felt a momentary indignation at her injustice; but his straits were too sore for him to cherish indignation. "If it were not for the children," he said, "I would close the house at once, and go away. Gabrielle would be better off perhaps at boarding-school; but Jay is such a baby. Still, I suppose that might not be a difficulty."

"He does seem rather young to send among strangers," she replied coldly, snipping down a fading branch of the climbing rose, and throwing it aside.

"But on some accounts, as I was saying to you the other day, I would much prefer keeping them together, and having them with me for the present."

"It would be pleasanter, perhaps," said Miss Rothermel, with distant but faint interest.

"What I want to ask you," he went on desperately, "is whether you think a household could be kept together, with any comfort or profit to the children, without any greater knowledge and experience on my part. I mean," he said confusedly, "could they get on without a governess, or a housekeeper, or some one to be at the head of affairs? Could three or four women get on, that is, without some one in authority over them?"

"Why, what is to prevent you from being in authority over them?" said Missy, almost contemptuously. "That is, if you are willing to take the trouble of thinking about things."

"I am very willing to think about things, but I am sorry to say I am so ignorant that my thoughts are not likely to be profitable."

"Knowledge is power," said Missy, clipping another dry leaf off.

"That is very true, Miss Rothermel," he said, with a smile. "I am sure you feel yours. But be good enough to help me. Tell me, to begin with, what I am to say to the waitress, who is to come to see me in half an hour. She asks me questions that I don't know how to answer."

"Well, what are some of them, pray?"

"Why, as we are not to keep a laundress, what part of the washing she must do?"

"The fine clothes, of course."

"I don't believe we have any fine clothes in the house. I think everything is very plain."

"Oh, that is a technical expression. It means the starched clothes. Say that to her and she'll understand. The cook is to do the coarse washing."

"Ah, yes; I see. Well, she wants to know about dinner—am I to have a regular dinner, and are the children to have a regular dinner in the middle of the day? Now, what does a regular dinner mean when a waitress talks about it? and what ought the children to have for their dinner?"

"Why, it means," said Missy, "are the children to have scraps and a jumbled-up lunch, all on the table together—or, are they to have soup, and a nice steak, and some vegetables, and a pudding, and fare like Christians. I hope you settled that question for her."

"I will settle it, now that I know what she means. Thank you. And what wages is she to have? And who is to serve tea on Sunday nights? And how often must she go out; and when she goes out who is to do her work?"

"Tell her she is to go out every other Sunday, and the cook is to serve tea in her place on that night. And one evening in the week she can go out. And as the nurse will go out on one evening also, she must arrange with her what that evening shall be. And on the nurse's evening out, she must sit up stairs and look after the children."

"Thank you. That looks plainer. I believe it was all she asked me. If I see the woman you thought might do for nurse, what questions will she be likely to ask me?"

"Why, I don't know; but you must be prepared to say, she is to do all the mending, and take the entire charge of the children, and of their clothes. And besides must teach them their letters and spelling every day for an hour, and must assist in waiting on them at their meals, for Jay needs some one every moment. But she is a sensible girl, and I am sure you will have no trouble with her. She won't be likely to ask you many questions."

"I am glad of that," said Mr. Andrews, growing lighter-hearted. "There is one thing more. You feel certain, Miss Rothermel, that three women can do the work? You know there have hitherto been five—"

Miss Rothermel looked contemptuous again. "That depends," she said, "entirely upon your wishes. Three women are all you need. You might have eight, but I don't think they'd add to your comfort."

"I am sure you are right," he said, apologetically. "All I mean is, will they be coming to me every day or two and saying they have too much to do, and excusing themselves in that manner for neglecting their work?"

"That depends, again, upon what you say to them, if they do come. If you never give in to any demands for more wages, and make them fully understand that you mean to keep three servants in the house and no more, you will not have any trouble. It will be an easy place; they will be very glad to stay. These three that I have told you of, are all good servants. I don't see any reason that Jay—that you all—I mean—shouldn't be quite comfortable."

Mr. Andrews knew very well that all her solicitude was for Jay. He did not care, however. He was willing to get comfort, even over his son's shoulder.

"I can't tell you how much obliged to you I am," he said. "Your aunt's maid has rather frightened me about my cook elect. Do you think there will be any difficulty in getting her to consent to come?"

"I don't know why there should be."

"Perhaps, if you would say a word to her, she might be influenced."

Missy grew lofty at once. She had evidently washed her hands of the matter.

"I don't know anything to say to her to induce her to come if she is not induced by the prospect of a good home and good wages. She will probably come."

"And the nurse; is she not a sort of protegée of yours? Perhaps if you would kindly give her some idea of her duties it might help her."

This Mr. Andrews said maliciously, for he had a man's contempt for caprice, and he could see nothing but caprice in Miss Rothermel's washing her hands of his affairs. Two days ago she had advised him, urged him, made up his cabinet for him. And now she only tolerated an allusion to the subject. It was not his fault that the servants she had made him send away had been saucy to her. He was not inclined to submit to such airs (now that he had got his questions answered and there was a reasonable prospect of hot water and clean towels).

"She is not a protegée of mine at all," returned Missy. "All I know about her, however, is in her favor. She will, I think, take good care of the children. She will take her instructions best from you, and she has intelligence enough to fill up details of which you are ignorant necessarily."

Mr. Andrews bowed, and Missy filled up the gap in the conversation by snipping off some more dead leaves. There seemed really nothing for him to do but to go away, and he was just preparing to do this when the children rushed upon the scene. Jay pounced upon Missy, and nearly threw her down; she looked slight and small, stretching up her arm to a high branch of the vine, and the little ruffian probably felt his superiority and used it.

"You are a naughty boy," she said, picking up her hat and the scissors which he had thrown to the ground, but she did not say it very severely.

"Why did you go away without me?" he said, kicking at her glove, which lay upon the gravel walk.

"Because I didn't want you," she returned.

Gabrielle had crept up to her father, and was eying Missy and Jay with sidelong observation. "Jay said something very bad this morning," she said, including her father in her circuitous glance. Her father naturally felt suspicious of Gabrielle's information; it was generally of a nature far from pleasing. He therefore passed over her remark without notice, and putting out his hand to Jay, said, "Well, you haven't spoken to me this morning. I think you have forgotten that you haven't seen me."

"Holloa! how are you?" cried Jay, catching at his father's hand with both his, and trying to climb up his leg. His hat fell off in the exertion, and his yellow hair, fresh from Goneril's brushing, blew about in the breeze.

"He said he didn't want to go home to you, papa," persisted Gabrielle.

"He didn't! there's affection for you," said the father, carelessly, with both hands now holding the boy, who chose to walk up him.

"He said—" and now Missy began to tremble. "He said he wouldn't go away from Missy."

"Thank you, Jay," said Missy, looking at the boy with a bright smile, and some relief. "They'd better let you stay with me if that's the way you feel."

"O no," cried the little viper, "we couldn't spare Jay. You could do like Alphonsine said you wanted to do, come to our house and live with us, and have things all your own way. You know she said that was what you were working for. Don't you remember, Missy? Just before Moses started up the horses."

Jay had made the ascent of his father and stood in triumph on his shoulder. Mr. Andrews with a rapid movement put him on the ground, made a step forward and brought his hand with force on Gabrielle's cheek, a hard stinging blow that made the child scream with pain and amazement, for he had never struck her before.

"Never repeat to me the words of servants," he said, in a voice terrible to her, and severe enough in the ears of others, especially little Jay, who looked awe-struck. There was a seat outside the greenhouse door, and on this Missy had sunk down, trembling all over. She opened her lips and tried to speak, but literally she could not, the sudden agitation had taken away her voice. Meanwhile Gabrielle had found hers, and was crying passionately, very angry at the blow, and very sure too, that crying was the way to get the better of her father. But this time she was mistaken. He took her hand almost roughly.

"Come with me," he said. "I have something more to teach you."

His voice was rather unsteady from anger, his face flushed, and his eye stern. No wonder Gabrielle's cry sank into a frightened whimper, as she followed, or was half dragged away by her father. Jay ran up to Missy, and tried to climb into her lap. With an impulse that the poor little fellow could not understand, of course, she pushed him away. It was the first repulse he had ever had from her: though he was still in petticoats, his pride and wounded affection were strong; he would not wait for a second rebuff. He started down the path, crying, Papa. Missy saw him overtake his father as he crossed the lawn, and cling to his hand, hardly able to keep up with his rapid walk. And so, with a child in each hand, he passed out of the gate and disappeared from Missy's sight.

She sat still for a few minutes, and tried to collect her thoughts. She felt as if some one had given her a blow on her ear, and sent all the blood tingling to her brain. Finally she got up, picked up Jay's hat, which he had left on the field, and the scissors, and the basket, which had been overturned in the mêlée. She put the flowers back into it, angry and ashamed to see how her hand shook, and shutting the greenhouse door, slowly went out of the garden. Where should she go to get away from every one, and be by herself for a little while? If she went to the beach, hither the children might come in a few moments. If to the lawn, she was a fair mark for visitors and servants, and the walk through the cedars would bring all back—the interview there three days ago, whence all her troubles dated. Her own room was the best place for her.

She put down the flowers in the hall, and went up stairs under a running fire from Goneril, Aunt Harriet and her mother, dispersed about the lower rooms and hall.

It is astonishing how much unnecessary talking is done in a house, how many useless questions asked, how many senseless observations made. Just be very unhappy, overstrained or anxious, and you will find out how many idle words are spoken in an hour, if you happen to be bearing your burden among happy, unstrained, and careless people.

It seemed to Missy, calling out her answers in as brave a voice as she could, going through the house, that never were questions so useless, observations so senseless.

"Where are you going?" was among the last of her mother's.

"To my room; and don't let me be disturbed, please. I want to be quiet for awhile."

"Another headache?" cried Aunt Harriet from the hall below. "Really, this is becoming serious. I never knew you were capable of headaches."

"Thank you," said Missy, shutting her door and sliding the bolt. She sat down in a chair by the window and gazed out; but she did not see the soft velvet of the lawn, nor the blue dimples of the bay against which the great trunks of the trees stood out.

There were some sails flitting about in the fresh wind, but she did not see them. She was trying to collect her thoughts and get over that blow on the ear that she felt as if she had had. It was new to her not to go to her mother and confide her trouble; but this was a sort of humiliation she could not bring herself to talk about. She excused herself by saying it would only distress mamma. It would have distressed mamma's daughter so much to have given words to it that she never even allowed to herself that it might be a duty. It was all a punishment, she said to herself, for having received on terms of kindness a man who had behaved so to his wife; that was a breach of friendship. It was something to bear in silence, to be hushed up, and forgotten, if it could be, even by herself. She wished that she might go away.

She got up and walked across the room—impulsively. Then sat down again, with the bitter reflection that it was only men who could go away. Women have to sit down and bear their disappointments, their mortifications, their defeats; to sit down in the sight of them and forget them if they can. Men can pack their tender sensibilities into their valises, and go off and see that the world is wide, and contains other subjects of thought and interest than the ones they have been brooding over.

Go away! No indeed; she laughed bitterly when she thought of the commotion that would result from the mentioning such a plan. St. John might walk in any day, and say he was going on a journey. No one would question his right to go, or his right to decline giving any reasons for so going. He was seven years younger than she was, but he was free. She must account for all her goings, her doings; even the people in the village would sit in judgment on her, if she did anything that was not clearly explained to them and proved expedient. No—she was tied, bound to Yellowcoats. All their plans were laid to remain at home for the winter.

Since St. John had come to the parish, they had decided it was unnecessary to make their annual change; Missy had not cared for the winter in town, Mrs. Varian had been glad to be let off from it, Aunt Harriet had submitted to give it up. So here she was to stay, and here it was possible the Andrews' would stay, and here she must daily see the children and pass the house, and be reminded that she had been insulted, and had been a fool. It would be the village talk. All her past dignity and her grand disdain of lovers would pass for nothing. She had never entered the lists with other young women; she had prided herself on her determination not to marry. "I am not in commission," she would say loftily to the younger girls, making the most of her age.

The few suitors who, so far, had come to her, had been detestable to her. She did not deserve much credit for rejecting them, but she took a good deal to herself, feeling sure that she would, in the same way, have discarded princes. Of course, she had had her dreams about true love, but she had early decided that that was not to come to her, and that she had a different sort of life to live. Being very fond of plans and arrangements of all kinds, it was a great satisfaction to her to feel she was building up the sort of life that she was intended for, that she was daily adding to its usefulness and symmetry. My will be done, she was saying, unconsciously, in her daily thought, if not in her morning and evening prayer. Yes, it was a very beautiful, a very noble life she was constructing, very devoid of self, she thought. She was living for others; was not that fine? She was quite above the petty ambitions and humiliations of her sex. She did not mean to marry, in deference to the world's opinion, or in terror of its scorn. All the same, she knew very well people held her very high, and were not ignorant that she could have married well if she had chosen. She did not think that this was of any importance to her, till she found what pain it gave her to think that people would now be of a different mind. Had it come to this, that it could be said she was only too ready to fall into the arms of a month-old widower, stout and elderly! Yes, that was what the people in the village—the gentlemen going down in the cars, the ladies in their morning drives—would say. The scene with the stage load of servants would be in possession of all these by to-morrow, if it were not so to-day. She knew the ability of Yellowcoats to absorb news, as a sponge absorbs water;—it would look very fair and dry, but touch it, squeeze it, ah, bah. Yellowcoats could take in anything, from the smallest detail to the most exaggerated improbability. She had spent her life in Yellowcoats, and she knew it. From highest to lowest it craved a sensation, and would sacrifice its best and choicest to fill up the gaping vacancy. She knew how good the story was, she knew how much foundation it seemed to have. What could she ever do to contradict it? Nothing. No word of it would ever reach her ears. She would be treated with the old deference, but she would know the laugh that underlaid it. She had no chance of contradicting what no one would say to her. And in action, what could she do? If she refused ever to see the children again, declined abruptly all intercourse with their neighbors, it would only be said, with more emphasis than ever, that she had met with sudden discouragement; that the gentleman had become alarmed at her ardent interest in his household matters, and had withdrawn abruptly from even ordinary civilities. If she still went on as before, appearing daily with the children in the carriage, taking them to church with her, it would be said she was still pursuing the chase, was still cherishing hopes of promotion. Whatever she did, it was all one. She couldn't publish a card in the paper, she couldn't go about and tell people they had been misinformed, when they didn't acknowledge to any information at all. The only thing she could do was to marry some one else out of hand, and that she felt she was almost prepared to do, if any one else were to be had on a moment's notice. But all her few men were dead men, and there was not a new one to be had for the wishing.

It was surely a very trying situation, and Missy shed bitter tears about it, and felt she hated, hated, hated this strange widower, whom she persisted in calling stout and elderly, as if that were the worst thing that a man could be. She knew him so slightly, she hated him so deeply. What business had he to humiliate her so? Though, to do him justice, it had not been his fault; he had only been the instrument of her chastisement. These tantalizing thoughts were interrupted, in the course of an hour, by Ann, bringing her a letter. Missy sat down to read it, knowing it was from Mr. Andrews.

"It seems fated," he wrote, "that you are to suffer for your kindness to my children. It is needless for me to tell you how much mortification I feel on account of my little girl's misconduct. I am sure your kind heart has already made many excuses for her, and has divined how great my chagrin is at finding her capable of such wrong dispositions. I have to remind myself very often that her life has been what it has, through no fault of hers, else I might feel harshly towards her. I know very well that you will agree with me that it is best that the children should trespass no more on your hospitality, after the return that they have made. I have put them into the nursery. The servant who has to come to see me this morning, has engaged to return to me in an hour's time. I have no doubt she will be capable of taking care of them till I can secure the nurse and cook. At any rate, it is but just that you should be free from them, and I beg you will have no further thought about the matter, except to believe that I am deeply sorry for the annoyance that your generosity has brought upon you.

"Always faithfully yours,

"James Andrews."

Missy's first feeling after reading this was, that he had at least behaved well about it, and had put things in the best shape for her. It was the better way surely, for the children to stay away altogether now. She felt she could not bear the sight of Gabrielle, and the chance of having to meet Mr. Andrews himself was insupportable. Yes, it was the best way, and she hoped that they might never, never cross each other's paths again.

Perhaps he would close the house and go away. She hoped her precious protegées would not give him satisfaction, and then he would have to go away. But then came second thoughts, soberer and less hopeful. Was it best for the children to stay at home to-day? How explain to the household, beginning with her mother, this sudden change of base? What would Goneril say, the glib-tongued Ann, and all the rest? It looked like a quarrel, a breach, a sensation. Gabrielle would be questioned over the hedge; the whole story would get out. No; this would never do. The children's clothes were in the drawers of the spare room, their playthings all about the house. The packing these and sending them back so abruptly, would be like a rocket shot into the sky, a signal of sensation to all Yellowcoats.

And then, proving how real her affection for Jay was, there came a feeling of solicitude for him, shut up in that damp nursery. It always had been damp, and she had disapproved it; the worst room in the house, with trees close up to the window, and no sun in it.

The house had been shut up for several days, and in September, that does not do for country houses by the water. The Varians had fire morning and evening, and Jay had been dressed every day since she had had the charge of him, by a bright little blaze of pine and hickory. It would be an hour before the woman came, and what would she get together for their dinner. Some poor baker's bread, perhaps, and some sweetmeats. Jay, poor little man, would be hungry before this time, she was sure. How he was fretting and crying now, no doubt; kicking his little bare legs against the chair.

Missy yearned over him, and she thought, with a pang, how she had pushed him away when he came climbing into her lap. If he were left there, with no one to take proper care of him for two or three days, she knew perfectly well he would be ill. His hands had been a little hot that morning, with all the care that she had given him. To-day was Saturday. It was not likely that the new women could be got into the house before Monday. No, she could not put poor little Jay into all this danger, to save her pride. So, after a good cry, the result of this softened feeling, she wrote the following little note to Mr. Andrews:

"I think you would do better to let the children come back and stay here till Monday. By that time you will no doubt have the servants in the house. When you are ready for them, please send me a few lines and I will send Goneril in with them."

She hoped she had made it plain that he was to keep out of the way, and as he had not merited stupid in addition to stout and elderly, she felt quite confident he would understand. She began several sentences which were meant to imply, from a pinnacle, that she did not blame him for the stings of his little viper, and that no more need be said about it. But none of them satisfied her, and she put the note into the envelope without anything but the bare statement of facts recorded above. Then she took Jay's hat, which she had brought in with her from the garden, and calling Ann, told her to take the note and the hat in to Mr. Andrews.

"The children are there, I think," she added carelessly, in explanation. "Jay ran off without his hat."

She had bathed her eyes before she rang the bell, that Ann might not see she had been crying. By and by Jay came in, accompanied by the new waitress, who explained from her master that Miss Gabrielle was under punishment and was not to have any dinner. She would come back at bedside. Jay looked a little doubtfully at Missy. He had not forgotten his repulse. When the woman had gone out of the door, she said,

"Come Jay, I think we'd better be friends, old fellow," and taking him in her arms, kissed him a dozen times. Jay felt as if a great cloud had lifted off the landscape. Why had everybody been so horrid? There must have been something the matter with people. He gave a great sigh as he sank back in Missy's embrace, but only said, "I want some dinner."

CHAPTER X.

PER ASPERA AD ASTRA.

The next day was Sunday, a chilly September day, threatening rain. Missy quite wished it would rain, and then there would be an excuse for omitting the children's church-going. But church time approached. It did not rain, indeed, looked as if it were to be a prolonged sulk, and not a burst of tears. So the carriage was ordered, the children made ready, and Miss Varian and Goneril, armed with prayer-books, waited on the piazza. The children looked very pretty in their mourning. Gabrielle was so handsome, she repaid any care in dressing her, and Alphonsine had really exerted herself to make up a pretty black dress, and trim a hat for her. There is always something pathetic in the sight of young children in mourning, and Missy had almost cried the first time she saw Jay in his little black kilt and with that somber cap on his yellow curls. She was quite used to it now, and did not feeling like crying from anything but vexation, as she came out on the piazza when she heard the carriage wheels approaching. She was going to church, to be sure, and that ought to have been soothing to her feelings. But she was also going to face the little populace of Yellowcoats, and that was very ruffling to them. She felt it was a pity she could not make herself invisible, and that her neighbors could not make themselves invisible too. She was sure they would say better prayers if that could be the case. How they would gaze at her as she walked down the aisle! How glances would be exchanged, and nudges given, as the little black-clad children came in sight. It is all very well to say, don't think of such things if you know you're doing right. It takes a very advanced saint not to mind what people think, and Missy, poor Missy, was not that. She longed to say her prayers, and felt she had never needed to say them more; but it was as if a thousand little devils, with as many little prongs, were busy in a swarm around her. To add to all her fretting thoughts, Aunt Harriet was particularly trying, Goneril was more audacious, the children were exasperating, even sitting still and in their Sunday clothes.

As the carriage rolled up to the church gate, Missy felt her face growing red and white with apprehension of the eyes that would in a moment more be looking at it. The bell had stopped ringing, and she heard the organ. Of all moments, this was the worst to go in.

"What are you waiting for?" said Miss Varian, sharply, as Missy paused, irresolute.

"Nothing," said Missy with a groan, and she went forward, bidding the children follow. Goneril, of course, was a dissenter, and had to be driven to the other end of the village to say her humble prayers. I think she objected to stopping even at the church gate, and to riding with people who were going there. She always had a great deal to say at the Sunday dinner, about forms and ceremonies and a free Gospel, but as her fellow-servants were most of them of a more advanced creed themselves, she did not get much sympathy, or do much injury to any one. So Goneril went her way, and Missy, with her blind aunt on her arm, and the children following in her wake, went hers. Certainly it was the way of duty, or she never would have walked in it. If she had dared to do it, she would have stayed from church that morning, and said matins among the cedars on the bank. But as she did what was right and what was hard, no doubt, her poor distracted prayers got an answer, and her marred, distorted offering of worship was accepted.

St. John was not yet in the chancel; they had fallen upon the moment when they would naturally be most conspicuous and attract most notice from the congregation. Miss Varian always would walk slowly and heavily; the children gazed about them, and met many curious eyes. Missy looked haughty enough; she was never particularly humble-looking. When they reached the pew-door (and it seemed to Missy they would never reach it), Miss Varian was a long while getting through the kneeling cushions, and accepted no help from any one.

"Well, I hope they all see the children and are satisfied of my intentions," said Missy bitterly to herself, as she stood thus a mark for the merry eyes of Yellowcoats. At last, Aunt Harriet made her way to the end of the pew, and Missy followed her, letting the children take care of themselves.

St. John's voice; well, there was something in it different from other voices. There must have been a dim and distant echo of that company who rest not day nor night. It did not recall earth and vanity. It made a lift in the thoughts of those who heard it. Missy, amidst distraction and vexation, heard him, and in a moment felt that it was very little worth, all that had caused her smart and ache. When St. John read, people listened, whatever it was. Perhaps it was what is "sincerity" in art. He read in a monotone too, as does his school. He did not lift his eyes and look about him; he almost made a business of looking down. It was very simple; but maybe those who would analyze its power, would have to go far back into fasts and vigils and deep hours of meditation. Missy drew a long breath. She didn't care for Yellowcoats' gossip now, while she heard St. John's voice, and poured out her fretted soul in the prayers of her childhood. Perhaps she never knew how much she owed her brother, and those disapproved austerities of his. We do not always know what the saints win for us, nor how much the fuller we may be for our holy neighbor's empty stomach. And the children tumbled and twisted about on their seats, and Jay went to sleep, and Gabby eyed her neighbors, and Missy did not mind. It was well that she did not, for if she had reproved them, Yellowcoats would have whispered, what a step-mother is that, my brothers. And if she had caressed them, they would have jeered and said, see the pursuit, my sisters. But as she simply let them alone, they could say nothing, and settled themselves to listen to the sermon after the prayers were said.

And in the sermon there was a word for Missy. It was an old word, as most good words are; Missy remembered copying it out years before, when it had seemed good to her, but now it seemed better and fuller:

"Let nothing disturb thee, nothing surprise thee:

"Everything passes:

"God does not change:

"Patience alone weareth out all things:

"Whoso holds fast to God shall want for nothing:

"God alone sufficeth."

And "the benediction that followeth after prayer" seemed to her more than ever

"A Christian charm,
To dull the shafts of worldly harm."

Even though the arm stretched out to bless were that of the young brother whose steps she had so often guided in their days of childhood.

As they went in, Missy had seen, somehow, with those quick, light-blue eyes of hers, that Mr. Andrews was in the church, in a pew near the door. She knew it was the first time he had been in the church since his wife's death. She began instantly to speculate about his reasons for coming, and to wonder whether he would have the kindness to go off and leave them to get into the carriage by themselves after service. Then St. John's voice had broken in upon the fret, and she had forgotten it, till they were at the church door, coming out, before chattering little groups of people on the grass outside. It did not yet rain, but the sky was gray as granite, and the air chill.

Jay's warm little hand was in hers, unconsciously to them both. Miss Varian was leaning heavily upon her other arm. Half a dozen persons came up to speak to them as they made their way to the carriage. At the carriage door stood Mr. Andrews. Jay made a spring at him. Mr. Andrews gravely lifted him in. Missy felt an angry agitation as she saw him, but the words of St. Theresa's wisdom stood by her for the moment. He scarcely looked at her as he put her into the carriage. Gabrielle, very subdued, followed, and Mr. Andrews closed the door, lifted his hat, after some commonplace about the weather, and the carriage drove away. All Yellowcoats might have seen that. Nothing could have been more unsensational.

That evening St. John came to tea, very tired and silent. He sat alone with his mother an hour before tea, and Missy saw tears on her cheeks as she brought in the light. She came into the library and lay on her sofa, but could not join them at tea. Those tears always gave Missy a jealous feeling. These long talks with St. John now always brought them. At tea the children chattered, and St. John tried to be amusing to them, and after tea, as they sat around the library fire, while the rain outside dashed against the windows, he took Jay on his lap, and told him a story. Jay liked it, and called for more, and Gabby drew near to listen.

"Why didn't you tell us a story to-day at church," he said. "Stories are a great deal nicer than talking the way you did."

"Goneril says it doesn't do us any good to go to church when we don't want to," said Gabby. "Does it, Mr. Varian?"

"People don't go to church to be done good to," said Missy, who had no patience with Goneril, and less with Gabrielle.

"Don't they?" asked Gabrielle, ignoring Missy, and turning her great eyes up appealingly into St. John's face, as she leaned on the arm of his chair.

"No, I should think not," said St. John, slowly, putting his hand on hers.

"Translate it into words of one syllable, St. John," said Missy, poking a pine-knot into blaze, "that people go to church for worship, not for edification."

"Well, children," he said, "no doubt you have always been taught to go and say good-morning to your father, and give him a kiss, haven't you? And you generally do it, though it doesn't do you any particular good, nor, for the matter of that, very much to him. But he likes it, and you always ought to go. Maybe sometimes you don't want to go; sometimes you're busy playing, or you're hungry for your breakfast, or you're a little lazy. But if you always give up your play, or put off your breakfast, or get over being lazy, and go, no doubt you have done right, and he is pleased with you. Now, going to church is a service, a thing to be done, to be offered to God; it isn't that we may be better, or learn something, or get any good, that we go. It is to pay an honor to our Heavenly Father; it is something to give to Him, an offering. I think we should be glad, don't you? There are so few things we can give Him."

Gabrielle was not convinced, and offered objections manifold, but Jay said "All right, he'd go next time without crying, if Goneril didn't brush his hair so hard."

"You mustn't get her into an argument, then," said Missy. "The faster she talks, the harder she brushes."

"You won't be here another Sunday, Jay," said Gabby. "You'll have your own nurse, and maybe she'll brush easy."

The children were soon sent to bed, and then St. John went away.

"I have something to tell you, Missy," said her mother. "Come to my room before you go to bed."

Missy's heart beat faster. Now she should know the explanation of her mother's tears, and St. John's long silences.

"Well," said Missy, sitting down by her mother's sofa, before the fire which blazed uncertainly. She knew from the clear shining of her mother's eyes, and from the faint flush on her cheek, that it was no trifling news she was to hear, and that before that pine log burned away, they should have gone very deep. She felt a jealous determination to oppose.

"You don't know how to begin, I see," she said, with a bitter little laugh. "I wish I could help you."

"Oh," said her mother, "it is not very difficult. St. John says you told him never to talk to you about going away; and so it was best not to talk about it till everything was settled."

"Certainly; he has only kept his promise. I did not want to be stirred up with all his fluctuations of purpose."

"I do not think, Missy, you can justly say he has fluctuated in purpose. I think he came here almost under protest, giving up his will in the matter to please us—to please you. In truth, I think he has had but one purpose, that has been strengthening slowly day by day."

Missy lifted her head. "I don't understand exactly. I know he has been getting restless."

"I don't think he has been getting restless."

"Well, at any rate it looks so, going from one parish to another in six months."

"But, he is not going from one parish to another."

Missy started. "What do you mean, mamma? I hope he isn't—isn't giving up the ministry."

"Oh, no; how could you think of such a thing."

"Well," cried Missy, impetuously, "please remember I am outside of all your counsels. Everything is new to me. St. John is going away; is going to make some important step, and yet is not going to a new parish, is not forsaking his vocation. How can you wonder I am puzzled?"

"He isn't forsaking his vocation; he is only following what he is very sure is his vocation in its highest, fullest sense."

"You don't mean," cried Missy, turning a startled face to her mother, "that St. John has got an idea that he is called to the religious life? Mamma, it isn't possible. I can't believe you have encouraged him in this."

"I have had nothing to do with it, alas, my child. One must let that alone forever. We can give up or deny to God, our own souls; but 'the souls of others are as the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil; we must not touch them.' I had my own soul to give, and I did not give it."

Missy turned coldly away while her mother pressed her hands before her face. There was a silence, in which a bitter flood of thoughts passed through the mind of the younger one.

"I am a reproach to you, mamma," she said. "Perhaps I ought not to exist. There are moments when I feel the contradictions of my nature to be so great, I wonder if it were not wrong, instead of right, that I was born—a broken law, and not a law fulfilled. I know—you need not tell me—you had always thought of the religious life yourself. We have not talked much of it, but I have had my thoughts. Your first marriage bound you to the world, because it left you with me. I suppose if I had not been born you would have entered a sisterhood. Then, mamma, you need not evade it, you would have missed the real love, the real life of your heart. You have never told me this, but I know enough to know you did not love my father. It cannot be your fault; but it was your fate. Do not contradict me, we never have gone so deep before. Yes, mamma, I bound you to the world. I was the unlovely child who stood between you and heaven. How could I help being unlovely, born of duty, not of love? I don't reproach you, except as my existence reproaches you. St. John is not a contradiction; his nature is full and sweet; he might live a happy life. Why do you sacrifice him? You say you have had no hand in this—mamma—mamma—you moulded him; you bend him now. You do not know how strong your influence upon him is. It is the unconscious feeling of your heart that you are making reparation. You are satisfied to give him up who is all the world to you, that Heaven may be propitiated. It is I who should have been sacrificed; I, who have been always in your way to holiness—a thorn in your side, mamma—a perverse nature, not to be bent to your path of sacrifice and immolation."

"Do not talk of sacrifice, my child, of immolation. It is a height, a glory, to attain to. I cannot make you understand—I will not contradict you."

"No, do not contradict me. I am contradicted enough. I am not in your state of fervor. I see things as they are, I see plain facts. Believe me, this enthusiasm cannot last. You will find, too late, that you have not counted the cost; that you cannot bear the strain of feeling—a living death—a grave that the grass never grows over. Time can't heal a wound that is always kept open. You are mad, mamma, you are mad. We cannot bear this thing. Look at it, as you will when your enthusiasm cools."

"I have looked at it, Missy, for many months, through silent nights and days. It is no new thought to me. My dear, I have many lonely hours; I have much suffering, which abates enthusiasm. Through loneliness and suffering, I have had this thought for my companion. I know what I am doing, and I do it almost gladly. Not quite, for I am very weak, but almost, for God has been very gracious to me."

"It is infatuation, it is madness, and you will both repent."

"Hush, my child," said her mother, trying to take her hand, "the thought is new to you, that is why it seems so dreadful."

But Missy drew her hand from her mother's and turned her face away. Her heart was pierced with sorrow at the thought of parting from her brother. It was the overthrow, too, of all her plans for him, of all their joint happiness and usefulness. But, to do her justice, the bitterness of her disappointment came from the idea of separation from him. She loved him a great deal more than she acknowledged even to herself. Life would be blank without him to her, and what would it be to her mother? This sudden weight of woe seemed unbearable, and it was a woe worse than death, inasmuch as, to her mind, it was unnecessary, unnatural, and by no law of God ordained. She felt as if she were smothering, stifling, and her mother's soft voice and calm words maddened her.

"I need not talk to you," she cried, "for you are in this state of exaltation you cannot understand me. When your heart is broken by this sorrow; when you sink under the weariness of life without him, then we can talk together in one language, and you can understand me. But it will be too late—Oh, mamma, hear me—but what is the use of talking!—remember how young he is, how little of life he knows! Think how useful, how honorable, his work might be. I cannot comprehend you; I cannot think what magic there is about this idea of the monastic life. Why must St. John be better than other men of his generation? Why cannot he serve God and live a good life as better men have done before him? I see nothing in him so different from others; he is not so much worse, that he needs such rigor, nor so much better, that he need set himself apart. Believe me, it is the subtle work of a crafty enemy; he cannot be contented with the common round, the daily task; he is not satisfied to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly; he must do some great thing."

"We shall see," said her mother, gently. "His vocation will be tested. You know it will be long before he is permitted to enter the order he has chosen. He may not be accepted."

"Not accepted!" cried Missy. "A man with money, influence, talent—Oh, we need not flatter ourselves. He will be accepted soon enough. They may coquet about it a little to save appearances, but they will not let him escape them, you may be quite sure."

"Missy, I must beg, if you cannot spare me such things, you will at least not wound St. John by saying them before him."

"Oh, you may be sure I will not wound his saintly ears by such profanity. But you—I did not think you had yet left the world. I fancied there was yet one of my blood to whom I might speak familiarly. You and St. John are all I have; and when he is a monk, I shall be obliged to be a Trappist—are there female Trappists?—excuse my ignorance of such matters—or offend you occasionally by my secular conversation."

"Missy, we won't talk of this any more till you have got over your bitterness a little. I hoped you would not take it so. I have dreaded telling you for the pain it would give you, but I did not think you would so misapprehend him. By and by, I am sure you will see it differently, and though you may not fully approve, you will yet admire the fullness of his faith, and the sweetness of what you call his sacrifice."

"Never, never," cried Missy. "I love truth and right and justice too much to admire even the most beautiful perversions of them. I may be reconciled so far as to hold my peace. More you cannot ask of me. Mamma, remember, you and I have always thought differently about these things. St. John took your faith, and has always been dearer and nearer to you than I. I cannot help the way I was made; we are not responsible, I suppose, for the shape of our minds any more than for the shape of our bodies. St. John always loved to hear about miracles and martyrdoms; I never did. It wasn't his merit that he liked them, nor my fault that I didn't like them. Such as I am by nature, you must be patient with me."

"Such as we are by nature, my dear, would draw little love to us from God, or men. Our corrections and amendments make our worth. I love you for what you have made yourself, in spite of passion and self-will, and St. John, for the conquest he has made of faults that lie deeper and more hidden. Ah, my dear, we may go to prisons and reformatories to see how attractive people are by nature."

"You know," said Missy, coldly, "I never could feel as you do about this making over, 'teaching our very hearts to beat by rule.' You see it is—just one part of our difference. St. John will always please you. I am afraid I cannot hope to do it, and as we are to spend our lives alone together, it is to be regretted."

"Oh, Missy, Missy, do not try to break my heart!"

"If it is not broken now, by this cruel separation, nothing I can do will break it. Mamma, forgive me, if I am not as humble and reverent as I should be, but you have laid a great deal on me. All this is, as you say, quite new to me. It is as if you had taken me by the hand, and led me to the room where my brother lay dying and had said to me, 'See, I have mixed the poison, and given it to him; we have talked it over for months together; we are both convinced that it is right and good. Death is better than life. Be content, and give thanks for what we have done.'"

"My child, you cannot surely be so blind. How is it that you do not perceive that it is not death, but life, that I have led you in to see? That I have shown you your brother, girded with a new strength, clothed with a new honor; set apart for the service of God forever. Missy, he is not lost to us, dear, while we believe in the Communion of Saints."

"Mamma, I don't believe in it! I don't believe in anything. You have overthrown my faith. You have killed me."

"Listen to reason, Missy, if not to faith. St. John is happy; happier than I ever knew him, even as a child; he is happy, even in this time of transition and suspense. If he is blessed with this great gift, if he has sought peace and found it, even in what may seem to you this hard and bitter way, let us be thankful and not hinder him. This is not of an hour's growth, and he will not waver. He is slower than we are, Missy, slower and deeper. St. John is steadfast, and he is fully persuaded in his own mind of what he wants to do and what he ought to do. I know no one with so little natural enthusiasm—the fire that burns in him is not of nature. And he has counted the cost. He knows what he gives up, and he knows what he gains. He knows that he is sure of misconception, reprobation, scorn, and I do not think it weighs a straw with him. What would weigh with you, and possibly with me, is literally of no force at all with him. You know he never thought at all what the world might say about him, not from disrespect to the opinion of others, but from deep indifference, from perfect unconsciousness. That is nature, and not grace, but it makes the step less hard. The separation from us, Missy, the giving up his home, that has been a battle indeed; but it has been fought, and, I think, will never have to be gone over, in its bitterness, again."

"I don't know how you can have any assurance of that; excuse me for saying so."

"Well, I cannot explain it to you. I am afraid I could not make you understand exactly. 'The heart hath its reasons, which the reason cannot comprehend.'"

"No doubt. I am not right in asking you to cast these spiritual pearls before me—"

"Missy!"

"But I may ask for some plain husks of fact. I am capable of understanding them, perhaps. If it isn't bringing things down too much, please, when does my brother go away—where does he go to, when he goes?"

"I suppose he will go next month; he will offer his resignation here to-morrow at the vestry meeting."

"Then will begin the strife of tongues," said Missy, with a shudder. "I suppose he will think it his duty to tell these ten solid gentlemen 'with good capon lined,' fresh from their comfortable dinners, why he goes away."

"Assuredly not, Missy. St. John is not Quixotic. He has good quiet sense."

"He had, mamma. Excuse me. Well, if I may hear it, where is he going, and is it to be unequivocally forever—and—I hope he remains in our own communion? I don't know whether I ought to ask for such low details or not, but I cannot help a certain interest in them. I suppose an ecstasy has no body; but a resolution may have."

"Surely, Missy, you will not say things like these to St. John? Save your taunts for me. It would wound him cruelly, and he would not know, as I do, that they spring from your suffering and deep love to him."

"Truly, mamma, you are too tender of the feelings of your ascetic. If I wound him, that is a part of what he has undertaken; that is what he ought to be prepared for, and to ask for. You can't put yourself between him and his scourge. Think of it! how the lash will come down on his white flesh; and St. John has always been a little tender of his flesh, mamma. Well—is he Roman or Anglican? For I confess I feel I do not know my brother. Please translate him to me."

"I don't know why, having seen no wavering in his faith, you should insult him by supposing he has any intention to forsake it. But let us end this conversation, Missy. I feel too ill to talk further to-night, beyond telling you he hopes to enter an order in England, and that he will be gone, in any event, two years. After that, it is all uncertain. If he is received, he is under obedience. He may be sent to America; he may end his days in India. We may see him often, or we may see him never. It is all quite one to him, I think, and I pray he may not even have a wish."

Mrs. Varian ceased speaking, and lay back on her sofa quite white and exhausted.

"I suppose I'd better not keep you awake any longer, then," said Missy, rising. "Is there anything I can do for you? Call me if you need me. Good-night." She stooped over her mother and kissed her lightly. She would not touch her hand, for fear she should show how cold hers was, and how it trembled. She went across the room to see if the windows were closed, and then to the fire to see that it was safe to leave for the night, and with another word or two, went out and shut the door. A tempest of remorse for her unkindness came over her when she was alone in her own room. She knew what her mother was suffering, had suffered, and though she reproached her for having influenced her brother's decision, she reproached herself for having added one pang to her already too great sorrow. She had, indeed, cruelly wounded her, and left her to the long night watches without a word of repentance.

Missy would have given worlds to have been on the other side of the door she had just closed. Then it would be easy to let the tears come that were burning in her eyes, and to throw herself into her mother's arms, and be silently forgiven. But in cold blood to go back, to reopen the conversation, to take back what she had said, to humble herself to ask forgiveness for what was true, but which ought not to have been spoken—this was more than she had grace to do. She longed for the time to come when she should have a sorrow to bear that was not mixed up with repentance for some wrong-doing of her own. This loss of her brother, cruel as it was, would always be made crueller by the recollection of her jealousy of him, of her unkindness to her mother, of the way in which she had rejected her sympathy and taunted her with the share she had had in what had happened. It all seemed insupportable, the wounded love, the separation, the remorse, the jealousy, and the disappointment. What was her life now? St. John was woven into every part of it. What was her work in the parish, with him away; what her home without his presence? The world, she had given up as much as he, she thought; in it she could find no amusement. Study had been but a means to an end; there was nothing left her but duty—duty without peace or pleasure. She had her mother still, but her mother's heart was with St. John. Missy felt that there was a barrier between them which each day's suffering would add to. She should reproach her mother always for having influenced St. John. (She never for a moment altered her judgment of the error that had been made, nor allowed that there might be a side on which she had not looked.) She was certain that her mother would be unable to endure the separation, and that the months, as they wore away, would wear away her life. She would see her mother fading away before her eyes; and St. John, in his new life, leaving his duties to her, would be sustained by his mother's praise, and the approbation of his perverted conscience. She would be cut off from the sympathy of both mother and brother; equally uncongenial to both. She thought of them as infatuated; they thought of her as worldly-minded; she looked down upon their want of wisdom; she knew they looked down upon her unspiritual sordidness. It was all sore and bitter, and as the day dawned upon her sleepless eyes, she thought, with almost a relenting feeling, that if St. John had found peace anywhere, he was not to blame for going where it led him.

CHAPTER XI.

MY DUTY TO MY NEIGHBOR.

Six months had passed; St. John's leave-taking had soon taken place, after the conversation just recorded. It had been a time of great suffering to all; even Missy had found it harder than she had imagined. Miss Varian had taken it very much to heart, and in her violence Missy had become calm. Her natural place was, of course, in opposition to this member of the family. It seemed improper for her to be fighting in the ranks beside her aunt. This, and her great pain in parting from her brother, hushed her outward opposition. She felt she was, at least, justified in supporting him in the eyes of his deserted parish—and thus, Yellowcoats believed always that Missy had been the chief instrument in depriving them of his services; so correct is popular information. Her mother, Missy did not understand. The actual moment of parting was as full of agony as she had anticipated; for an hour after, there really seemed a doubt to others than Missy, whether the poor mother would ever come out of the swoon which had followed the last sound of the carriage wheels outside. But when, after a day or two, the physical effects of the emotion passed away, Mrs. Varian seemed to grow content and quiet; a deeper peace than before filled her eyes. The yearning, pining weariness which Missy had anticipated, did not come. She seemed to heed neither companionship nor solitude; her solitude seemed peopled with angelic company; while her face welcomed all who came near her, far from angelic as they might be. Her health seemed stronger. It was all a mystery to her daughter.

"Mamma seems better than for years, this winter," she was obliged to say, when asked about her mother's health. She did not talk much about St. John, even with Missy, but when she did talk of him, it was with simplicity and naturalness. His letters never threw her into depression, nor was she deeply anxious when they did not come. She always gave the letters to Missy to read, which had not been the case before. They were short, affectionate, plain as to fact, expressing nothing of inward emotion. Missy felt sure that this was understood between them, and that the outpouring of heart which had been so dear to both, was part of the sacrifice.

The new clergyman came, and parish matters in their new light had to be talked over. This was acute pain to Missy, to whom it seemed St. John's work alone. It seemed to give no pain to her mother, and her interest in affairs connected with the village church was unabated. The only thing that seemed to pain her, was the adverse criticism upon the step her son had taken, which Miss Varian took pains should come to her ears. People opened their minds on the matter to her, knowing she was strongly opposed to it, and she felt it to be her one source of consolation, to repeat these confidences to her sister-in-law.

After a time, it became Missy's business to thwart her in obtaining interviews with her mother, and to have always a servant in the room. Before a servant, Miss Varian would not talk on family matters, even when she was very bitter, and Goneril had a comfortable corner of the room where she was not loth to do her sewing, and where she saved Mrs. Varian many a sharp stab. The children, too, came often to the house, almost as often as in the summer time, and they and their nurse made a wall of defense as well.

After all, the winter wore away not unpeacefully to the Varian household, and all the desponding anticipations seemed to have been unwarranted. The children went and came; Jay's warm little hand was often in Missy's when she walked and rode; she had much occupation in the house, not as many interests outside. Time seemed to be healing the wound made by her brother's departure; she had read systematically, she was in fine health, the winter had been steadily cold and bracing. Yes, it had been a quiet, peaceful time to them all since Christmas. She blushed when she remembered how persistently she had prophesied evil, refusing to be comforted. "I must be very commonplace," she thought. "I am not even capable of suffering consistently." On the whole, however, it was a relief to be contented and comfortable, and she did not reject it exactly, though she took it under protest, and with a certain shame. She had, too, got over the violence of her feelings in the matter of her neighbor. She remembered her keen emotions with mortification. A good many things had contributed to this, principally the fact that St. John's going had eclipsed all other events, and that, in that real sorrow, the trifling sting was forgotten. Besides, the gentleman himself had had the kindness to keep entirely at home.

It was now May, and since November Missy had not spoken to him once. His household matters seemed to have been working smoothly. The servants, Missy learned through Eliza, the nurse, were contented and industrious. Mr. Andrews, she said, was the nicest gentleman to work for. He seemed as comfortable as a king, and was pleased with everything they did for him. He read his paper after dinner, and then talked with the children, and after they went to bed, read or wrote till after all were sleeping in the house. Two nights in the week he stayed in town; he did not seem to mind going back and forth. Sometimes he brought a gentleman home with him, but that was not very often. He seemed to think the children much improved, and he took an interest in their lessons, and made them tell him every night what they had been learning. As Eliza was herself their teacher, this gratified her very much. She was a steady, sensible young woman, and was in reality a protegée of Missy's. Missy had had her in her Sunday-school class, had prepared her for confirmation, and had never ceased to look after her and advise her; and had told a very naughty "story" when she denied to Mr. Andrews that the nurse elect was any protegée of hers. But in certain crises the most virtuous of women will say what is not true.

At first Missy tried to repress Eliza's devotion to her, and not to listen to the details she insisted on giving of her daily life and trials; but it was too alluring to give advice, and to manage Jay by proxy; and after a month or two, Missy ruled as truly in the Andrews nursery as she did in her own home. She was not without influence, either, over the other servants in the widower's establishment. They knew they owed their places to her, and they were anxious to obtain her good opinion. Through Eliza many hints were obtained how to manage about certain matters, how to arrange in certain delicate contingencies.

"Why, if I were in your place, Eliza, I should tell the cook she'd better speak to Mr. Andrews about Martin's coming in so late. It is always best to be truthful about such matters."

"Of course I don't know anything about it; but it seems to me the waitress would do much better to put up all the silver that is not in use, and ask Mr. Andrews to have it packed away. It only gives additional work, and can do no one any good; and it is really rather unsafe to have so much about, Mr. Andrews is away so many nights."

This had all come about so gradually, Missy would have denied indignantly that she had ever put a finger in her neighbor's pie; whereas, both pretty little white hands were in it greedily, all ten fingers, all the time. Dear Missy, how she did love to govern!

It was only when Gabrielle turned up her eyes, with the expression that she had had in them that horrid day by the green-house door—though she discreetly held her tongue—or when by rare chance Missy passed Mr. Andrews in driving, that she stiffened up, and felt the angry aversion coming over her again. As long as he kept out of sight it was all very well; and he had been wise, and had kept out of sight all the winter long.

It was now May; and perhaps he began to think it would be very rude not to make a call upon his neighbors, after all their kindness to the children; perhaps he began to grow a little tired of his freedom from the tyranny of women; perhaps his evenings were a trifle dull, now that he could not sit, with his book, between a wood fire and a student lamp. Perhaps he came from duty; perhaps he came because he wanted to come; but at all events he came, one soft May evening, in the twilight, and walked up the steps of the piazza, and rang the bell that he had not rung for six long months of frost and snow. It is certain he felt a trifle awkward about doing it; his manner showed that. Missy was alone in the library, writing a letter by the lamp. She looked up, surprised, when he entered—indeed, more than surprised. They were both so awkward that they were silent for a moment—the worst thing to be.

"It seems a long while since I have seen you, Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews; and then he began to see how much better it would have been not to say it. It was so absurd for people living side by side not to have spoken to each other for six months. It couldn't have happened without a reason; and the reason came, of course, to both their minds.

"Yes, I believe it is," returned Missy, uncomfortably. "I think I caught sight of you, one day last week, coming from the cars. The new time-table is a great improvement, I should think. I suppose you get home now quite early, don't you?"

She was naturally the first to get command of herself, and by and by they got upon safe ground. But Missy was uneasy, stiff; Mr. Andrews wished the visit over many times before it was, no doubt.

"I will call my aunt," said Missy, "she enjoys visitors so much."

"Which is more than you do," thought Mr. Andrews as he watched her cross the room and ring a bell. But Miss Varian was long in coming.

"Don't you think Jay is growing nicely?" asked Mr. Andrews, trying to find a subject that was safe. He dared not mention Gabrielle, of course.

"Yes, he seems very well this spring. And he is a good boy, too, I think—for him, that is."

There was a certain pretty softening of her face, when she spoke of Jay, that never escaped Mr. Andrews. He liked to see it, it amused him as much as it pleased him. "Jay has made his first conquest," he thought. "This severe little lady is perfectly his slave."

"I am afraid he troubles you with his frequent visits. His nurse tells me he insists on coming very often," he said aloud.

"Oh, he never troubles me; sometimes I do not even see him. He is great friends with mamma."

"Mrs. Varian is well, I hope? I have thought very often your brother's absence must try her very much."

Most unreasonably the tears rushed into Missy's eyes at the allusion to her brother. The letter on her lap was to him, and she was rather less composed than usual.

"We bear it," she said, "as people bear what they cannot help. It was what mamma wanted for him, and so, in some ways, it seems easier to her than to me. Though of course the loss falls heaviest on her." This was more than she had ever said to any one, and she could not understand, a moment after, how she could have said it.

"It was," he said thoughtfully, "a grave step for him to take; I confess I cannot understand his motives, but, young as he is, one feels instinctively his motives are more entitled to respect than those of most men."

"I cannot respect motives that give me so much misery," she said, in a voice that trembled.

At this moment Miss Varian came in. While Mr. Andrews was speaking to her, and while the severe hands of Goneril were arranging her a seat, Missy had time to recollect how near she had been to making Mr. Andrews a confidant of her feelings about her brother. Mr. Andrews, who had broken his wife's heart; a pretty confidant. She colored high with shame and vexation. What had moved her to so foolish a step. She was losing all confidence in herself; people who habitually do what they don't mean to do, are very poor reliance. "I always mean to treat him with contempt, and I very rarely do it," she thought. "It is amazing, and a humiliation to me to recall the way in which I always begin with coldness, and end with suavity, if not with intimacy."

Pretty soon, Miss Varian began to ask what sort of a winter he had had. He said it had been very quiet and pleasant, and that spending a winter in the country had been a new experience to him.

"You must have found it very dull," she said. "I hate the country when there's nobody in it, and I wonder you could want to stay."

"But there was somebody in it," said Mr. Andrews, with a frank smile, "for me. A little boy and girl that are of more importance than kings and crowns, God bless them."

"With all my heart," said Miss Varian, "but I didn't know you were so domestic. I'm glad to be able to say, I've seen a man who would give up his club and his comfort for his children. Not but that you had some comfort here, of course. It wouldn't do to say that before Missy, who organized your cabinet for you, didn't she? How do your servants get along?"

"Very well, thank you," said Mr. Andrews uncomfortably.

"And have you taken the house for another year?" went on the speaker.

"Oh, yes, it agrees so well with the children here," answered Mr. Andrews apologetically. "I did not know where they would be any better off."

"Well, we must be grateful to them for keeping you, I suppose. I don't think you have been a very valuable neighbor so far, however. You haven't lived enough in the country to know what is expected of neighbors, perhaps."

"No, I must confess—"

"Why, neighbors in the country have a serious duty in the winter. They spend evenings very often together; they play cribbage, they bring over the evening paper; they take watches to town to be mended; they mail letters, they even carry bundles."

"I should think Mr. Andrews would give up the lease of his house if you put much more before him as his duty for next winter."

Missy said this quite loftily, having grown red and white, possibly a little yellow, since her aunt began to speak. Her loftiness, perhaps, piqued Mr. Andrews a little, for he said, turning to her:

"Hasn't a neighbor any summer duties? I hope Miss Varian will make me out a list."

"With pleasure," cried Miss Varian, scenting mischief in the air.

"My aunt's ideas of duty are individual, pray let me say," Missy put in, in not the most perfectly suave tone.

"A neighbor, in the summer," went on Miss Varian, as if she had not spoken, "a neighbor in the summer comes across after dinner, and smokes his cigar at the beach gate, if any of the family are sitting on the lawn. In rainy weather he comes over for a game of cards; occasionally he comes in time for tea; if he has a sail-boat, he takes his neighbors out sometimes to sail; he brings them peaches, the very first that come to market, and he never minds changing a book at the library in town."

"But these are all privileges; you were going to tell me about duties, were you not?"

"As to that, you may call them what you please, they are the whole duty of man in the country, and I can't see how you ever came to overlook them for such a length of time."

"You shan't be able to reproach me any more. Peaches are not in market; and my sail-boat is not out of winter quarters. But I might change a library book for a beginning. Haven't you got one that I might try my hand upon?"

"To be sure I have," said this hateful woman, with great enjoyment of her niece's anger; "I have a volume of Balzac that Goneril has just got through, under protest, and I'd like to have another, to make an utter end of her. It's my only chance of getting rid of her, and you would be a family benefactor."

"Please, let me have the book," said Mr. Andrews. "Is it this one on the table?"

"No," said Miss Varian. "I don't think it is down-stairs. Missy, ring the bell for Goneril to get it; will you?"

Missy had been sitting with her head turned away, and her lips pressed together. After her aunt spoke, she sat quite still for a moment, as if she could not bring herself to execute the order; then, without speaking, got up and walked across to the bell, and rang it, sitting down when she came back, a little further from the light, and from the two talkers.

"Missy, you've got through with the book yourself, haven't you?" said her aunt, determined to make her talk, as she was sure her voice, if she could be made to use it, would show her agitation.

That was Missy's calamity. Her voice was very sweet and pleasant; the nicest thing about her, except her feet and hands. But it was a very unmanageable gift, and it registered her emotions with unfailing accuracy. Missy might control her words, occasionally, but she could not control her voice, even occasionally. It was never shrill in anger, but it was tremulous and husky, and, in fine, angry. So now, when she answered her aunt that she had not seen the book, and did not know its name, and did not want to read it, the words were faultless, but the voice, alas, betrayed the want of harmony between aunt and niece. That Mr. Andrews had suspected since his earliest acquaintance with them.

"Oh, then, I won't keep it out for you," Miss Varian said blithely. "But, maybe you'd like Mr. Andrews to take back your Lecky; I heard you say at breakfast you had finished it. It wouldn't be much more trouble to take two than one, would it, Mr. Andrews?"

"Neither would be any trouble, but a great pleasure," said Mr. Andrews, civilly.

"Thank you; but there is no need to put it upon you. We have not left our books to chance bounty; the expressman is trusty, and takes them regularly."

"We sometimes have to wait three days!" cried Miss Varian, annoyed to have her errand look like a caprice.

"Well, I shall try to be more prompt than the expressman. Perhaps you'd better make out your list, that there may be no mistake."

"Missy, get a card, will you, and make out a list."

Missy again got up, after a moment's hesitation, looked in her desk, and got the card and pencil, and sat down as if waiting for further orders. In the meanwhile Goneril had come in, and was waiting, like a suppressed volcano, for information as to the cause of this repeated interruption of her evening's recreation. Miss Varian sent her for the book, and then said, "Missy, I wish you'd get the card."

"I have been waiting some time," said Missy.

"Well, then," said Miss Varian, pleasantly, "write out a list of Balzac, beginning with 'Les Petites Misères
de la Vie Conjugale'—translated, of course, for
Goneril can hardly read English, let alone French. I ought to have a French maid."

"Surely," said Missy, "if you want to read Balzac."

"I do want to read him, every line," returned her aunt. "'Les Petites Misères.' Well, let me see—what else haven't I read of his?"

Missy paused with her pencil suspended over the paper after she had written the name. She disdained to prompt.

"Can't you think, Missy?" said her aunt sharply.

"I can't," said Missy, quietly.

"Well, you're not often so short of words, whatever may be the cause. Mr. Andrews, I beg you won't think ill of my niece's intelligence. She is generally able to express herself. You have read ever so many of Balzac's books aloud to me, you must know their names."

"I don't recall them at this moment," returned Missy, using her pencil to make a little fiend turning a somersault, on the margin of the evening paper which lay beside her.

"Can't you help me, Mr. Andrews," said Miss Varian, a little tartly.

"I, oh, certainly," said Mr. Andrews, recalling himself from what seemed a fit of absentmindedness. "Some of the names of Balzac's books. Let me see, 'César Birotteau,' 'Le Père Goriot'—"

"Oh, I don't mean those. I've read all those, of course. I'd like some of the—well, some of the ones I wouldn't have been likely to have read, you know. Missy, there was one you were so horrified about, but you were fascinated too. Can't you think what it was? It occurs to me I'd like to try it again. You're not generally so stupid, or so prudish, whichever it may be." Missy's lips grew tight; she made another little fiend on the paper, before she trusted herself to answer.

"Perhaps," she said, handing the card across the table to her aunt, "you had better leave it to Mr. Andrews and the librarian. Maybe between them they can find something that will please you."

"Well, Mr. Andrews, then I'll have to leave it to you. And if you bring me something that I have read before, it will be Missy's fault, and you'll have to hold her responsible for it."

"I hope I shall be able to suit you; but in any case, I have quite a lot of French books at the house, which are at your service."

"But, you see, my maid can't read French, and so I have to have translations."

"Oh, I forgot. Well, perhaps, Miss Rothermel, some of them might suit you, if you'd let me send them in to you."

"You are very kind," said Missy. "But I have my reading laid out for two months to come, and it would be impossible for me to take up anything more."

Mr. Andrews bowed, and got up to take his leave. Miss Varian gave him the card and her hand too, and said an effusive and very neighborly good-night. Missy half rose, and bent her head, but did not offer to put out her hand.

"The caprices and the tempers of women," he thought, as he went home under the big trees and looked back at the friendly or unfriendly lights gleaming from the library window. "Their caprices and their tempers and their tongues!"

Nevertheless, he found himself speculating upon which of Balzac's books Missy had been fascinated with and horrified about. He did not like to think of her as reading Balzac, and being ashamed to own it too. He always thought of her as a "severe little lady;" she seemed to him, with all her caprice and temper, and even her sharp tongue, as the embodiment of all the domestic virtues. He had liked her face that day she came out of church, with her blind aunt on her arm, and little Jay close at her side; surely she was a good woman, if there were good women in the world. Nevertheless (as he lit his cigar), he could have wished she had a better sense of justice, and did not vent on him the anger engendered by the faults of others.

The next evening promptly upon the arrival of the carriage from the train, Eliza and Jay brought over "Les Petites Misères," and another of Balzac for Miss Varian from the library, and the last "Saturday Review," "Revue des Deux Mondes" and "Punch" for Miss Rothermel. Missy would not even take them off the table where her aunt had laid them down. She considered it quite humbling that he could not understand his literature had been refused. She had quite prided herself on the decision with which she had nipped in the bud that neighborliness, and here he was persistently blooming out into politeness again.

"This shall be put an end to forever," she thought. "They shall go back with their leaves uncut to-morrow, and that he cannot misconstrue."

CHAPTER XII.

FIRE AND SWORD.

That evening, however, a little incident occurred which made it difficult, nay, even impossible, to send the papers home with their leaves uncut. After tea, Missy hurried out, buttoning a sack on, and looking carefully around to see that she was not followed by neighborly notice. It had been a warm and lovely day; May was melting into June; the evening was perfect, the sun not quite below the hills as yet. Missy went across the lawn; the tide was high, and there was little wind. She pulled in the anchor of a little boat that rocked on the waves, and stepping in, took the oars and pushed out. No one was looking; Mr. Andrews was no doubt taking his solid and comfortable dinner, and had not yet ventured to accept Miss Varian's invitation to come and smoke his cigar at the beach gate. Missy had resolved that he should find no one there to bear him company, even if she gave up her favorite after-tea hour on the lawn, all summer. She pulled out into the bay, with a sense of getting free which is one of the pleasures of a woman on a horse or in a boat by herself. Some of Missy's happiest hours were spent skimming over the bay like a May-fly. No one could recall her to duty or bondage till she chose. She almost forgot Aunt Harriet when she was across the harbor; housekeeping cares fell from her when she pushed off into the water, and only came back when the keel grated on the shore again. To-night she drew a long breath of freedom as she pulled herself, with light-dipping oars, far out on the serene blue bay, and then, resting, held her breath and listened. How sweet and placid the scene!

Fret and headache, sin and temptation!—it was difficult to believe in them, out here in the cool and fresh stillness, palpitating with the gentle swell of the tide, fanned by an air that scarcely moved the waters, transfigured by the glorious hues that overspread the heavens and colored sea and land. "It is good to be here. Why must I ever go back again?" she thought, and then scorned herself for the unpractical and sentimental longing. "At any rate, I shall have time to go over to the West Harbor, before it is night, and perhaps get a look across Oak Neck into the Sound."

The village looked tranquil and sweet as she passed it; the smoke rose from a chimney here and there; the faint sounds came out to her like a dream; a little motion attracted the eye now and then, where the road was not hidden by the trees; a boatman moved about on the shore, but slowly, musically. The rich verdure of the early summer fields crept down to the yellow strip of sand, upon which the water splashed; two or three spires reached up into the rosy sky; pretty cottages peeped through the silent trees, green lawns lay with the evening shadows stretching across them. It was hard to believe that there, in that tranquillity, nestled sin and sickness; that there people went to law with each other, and drove sharp bargains, and told lies. That there indigestion and intemperance had their victims; that lust laid its cruel wait beneath that shade, that hypocrisy there played its little part.

"I will believe only what I see," thought Missy, gliding past. "All is lovely and serene." It was a long pull to the West Harbor. The pink had faded from the sky and from the waters before she turned towards home. She paddled along the shores of the little island that lies opposite Yellowcoats, and shuts in its pretty harbor from the Sound, and watched the changing of the sky from rose color to gray, and from gray to deep, dark blue, and the coming out of a silver thread of moon, and of a single star. Then one by one she saw lights glimmer in the distant village, and one, a little brighter and sharper than the rest, that even made for a moment a light against the sky.

"Lady Bird, Lady Bird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, and your children will burn,"

she sang to herself as she rowed across the bay, with her back to the place she was going to, as is the sad necessity of rowers. She neared the shore just below Ship Point, and then, turning around her head, stopped involuntarily to listen, as she heard the sound of a bell. It must have been a fire, after all, she thought; for while she rowed across the bay, she had forgotten the sudden light that made her think of Lady Bird, and the sound of her oars had kept her from hearing the bells which had been ringing for some time, no doubt. Her first impulse was to spring on shore, and run up the lane towards the houses that lay on the outskirts of the village, and hear what was the matter. Then she reflected that she could do no good, and that her absence and the fire together might upset her mother; so she soberly turned her boat towards home, speculating nevertheless, upon the chances of the fire, and wondering whose old barn or out-house had fallen victim to the heel of its owner's pipe. She certainly had no feeling of personal interest in the matter, further than as all Yellowcoats was of personal interest to her.

But as she neared the steamboat landing, and came opposite a stretch of road that was clear of trees, she could hear voices, and see people moving along it.

A sudden feeling of fright came over her, for beyond the steamboat landing were but two houses, their own, and Mr. Andrews'. She pulled with all her strength and her boat shot through the water, but it seemed to her she crept, and that she had time to go through scenes of misfortune and trouble enough to turn her gray. She could see no blaze, but the bells down in the village were still pealing forth their call. There was just light enough to see motion upon the road, and hear voices, and there must have been a multitude of them to have been audible above the dash of her quick oars.

She scarcely dared look around when she felt the keel touch the stones; no, it was not the Andrews' house! What a sight on their own lawn! Volumes of smoke covered the house; a score of people thronged the place; men with lanterns were calling and shouting; piles of what looked like furniture lay about; women were flitting here and there on the outskirts of the crowd, she could see their light clothes through the haze. It was all so dim, she felt more terror than if a great flame had towered up and showed her all. Springing from the boat, she ran to the beach gate, now lying off its hinges on the sand.

"What is it?" she said faintly to the first person she encountered. One of the maids, hearing her voice, ran towards her from a group where she had been standing uselessly telling her story over and over.

"What is all this, Ann?" she said, hurrying forward to meet the girl.

"O Miss Rothermel! Oh! Oh!" she cried, and bursting into tears ran off, throwing her apron over her head. Missy's limbs shook under her. Her one thought was, of course, her mother. She struggled forward through the crowd, on this part of the lawn, all men.

"Keep back now, keep back. We don't want no women here," cried a man, pushing her away, without looking at her. They were working stoutly at something, she didn't know what. The crowd were being pushed back. The smoke was suffocating, the ground uncertain; ladders and furniture seemed under her feet at every step. She could not speak, she did not recognize the man who pushed her back, nor could she, through the smoke, see any face clearly enough to know it. She heard a good many oaths, and knew that the crowd were very much in the way, and that the men at work were swearing at those who hindered them. Still she struggled to get nearer. Every moment she seemed to grow weaker, and every moment the horror of failing to get to her mother, seemed to grow stronger. At last she saw what they were trying to do, to get a rope stretched round the house, to keep back the crowd, perhaps from danger, perhaps from plunder. She heard above the noise, Mr. Andrews' voice in command; the crowd seemed to obey him. A line was stretched across the lawn, some thirty feet from the house, and the idle people were pressed back behind it. Missy by a desperate effort writhed through the crowd, and caught at the rope, and held by that, though pushed and swayed up and down, and almost crushed between her taller and more powerful neighbors. Mr. Andrews, passing along inside the cleared space, was calling out some orders to the men. He passed within a foot or two of where she stood, and she found voice enough to call to him and make him hear.

"Where are you?" he said, hurriedly, coming towards her through the darkness.

"Let me come to where you are," she gasped, stretching out one hand to him, but keeping the other fast closed over the rope.

"Let Miss Rothermel pass there; fall back, won't you, quick."

They obeyed him, falling back, and in a moment Missy stood free inside the rope, holding desperately to the hand Mr. Andrews had stretched out to her.

"Mamma—" she said, brokenly, "tell me if she is hurt."

"She is safe—all right—I took her, at the first alarm, to my house. You'd better get to her as quickly as you can. Come with me, I will get you through the crowd; it is less on this side of the house."

He hurried her forward; she stumbled and nearly fell over a roll of carpet, and seemed to be walking over an expanse of books and table-covers and candlesticks.

"Don't worry about any of these things," he said, "they'll all be safe, now the crowd are all behind the rope."

"I don't worry about anything," she said, "but mamma."

"You can be easy about her; there, I can't be spared here, I think you can get on now. Tell her the fire is all out, and there is nothing to worry about. I will see to everything. Ho, there, let Miss Rothermel through, will you?"

She crawled under the rope, and the people made way for her very promptly. It was so dark, she could not recognize any of them, but she heard several familiar voices, and offers of assistance. She was soon out of the press, and then ran fleetly through the gate and out into the road, and then through the gate of the Andrews' cottage, and in a moment more was kneeling by her mother's side. Mrs. Varian, at the sight of her, broke down completely, and sobbed upon her shoulder. She had been perfectly calm through all the excitement, but the relief of seeing Missy was more than she could bear. No one had known where she was, and there had been unspoken terror in the mother's mind. A few hurried explanations were all that she could give. An alarm of fire had reached her in her room, about twilight, and an oppressive odor of smoke and burning wood. She had heard cries and exclamations of fright from the servants, and Goneril, in all haste, had run for Mr. Andrews. In a moment he was on the spot, and no words could express her gratitude for his consideration, and her admiration for his energy. Before anything else was done save to send the alarm to the village (which was the work of an instant, as a horse was saddled at the door), he had insisted upon bringing her here; she had walked down the stairs, but the smoke and the excitement had overcome her, and he had lifted her in his arms, and carried her out of her house into his own. After a little time Goneril had appeared, leading Miss Varian, and bringing a reassuring message from Mr. Andrews. The people from the village, she said, had got there in an incredible time. All Yellowcoats, certainly, had gone in at that gate, Miss Varian said, coming into the room at that moment, guiding herself by the door-posts and wainscoting in the unfamiliar place. Certainly she should alter her opinion of the extent of the population after this. And every man, woman and child in all the town swarmed round the place ten minutes after the alarm was given, and were there yet, though the fire had been out for almost half an hour.

"And," she went on, addressing Missy, "if it hadn't been for this neighbor of ours, that you have been pleased to snub so mightily, I think we shouldn't have had a roof over our heads, nor a stitch of clothing but what we have upon our backs. Such a crowd of incapables as you have in your employ. Such wringing of hands, such moaning, such flying about with no purpose. And even Peters lost his head completely. If Mr. Andrews and Goneril hadn't set them to work, and kept them at it till the others came, there would have been no help for us. Mr. Andrews insisted upon my coming away, ordered me, in fact. But I forgave him before I had got out the gate, though I was pretty mad at first."

"I wonder if I ought not to go and see if I can be of use," said Missy, irresolutely, rising up.

But the start and flutter in her mother's hand made her sit down again.

"It's my advice to you to stay where you are," said her aunt. "We are a lot of imbeciles, all of us. We are better out of the way. It isn't very pleasant to think of the linen closet emptied upon the lawn, and all Yellowcoats tramping over it, but it's better than being suffocated in the smoke, or crushed to death in the crowd."

Missy gave her mother a reassuring pressure of the hand, and did not move again. They were indeed a company of useless beings. It was a strange experience to her to be sitting still and thinking the destruction of her household goods a light misfortune. That linen closet, from which the unaccounted-for absence of a pillow-case, would have given her hours of annoyance; the book-cases, where order reigned and where dust never was allowed; the precious china on the dining-room shelves, only moved by her own hands—for all these she had not a thought of anxiety, as she felt her mother's hand in hers. The relief from the fears of that quarter of an hour, while she was making her way through the crowd, had had the effect of making these losses quite unfelt. Subdued, and nervously exhausted too, she sat beside her mother, while the noises gradually subsided on the grounds adjoining. The house was but a stone's throw from the road, and from the Varians' gate, and Miss Varian, with keen ear, sitting on the piazza outside, interpreted the sounds to those within.

"Now the women are beginning to go home," she said. "The children are fretting and sleepy; there, that one got a slap. Now the teams, hitched to the trees outside, are unhitched and going away. I wonder how much plunder is being stowed away in the bottom of the wagons. I feel as if my bureau drawers were going off in lots to suit pilferers. There now, the boys and men are beginning to straggle off in pairs. You may be sure there isn't anything to see, if they are going. Talk of the curiosity of women. Men and boys hang on long after their legs give out. Ah! now we're beginning to get toward the end of the entertainment, I should think. I hear Mr. Andrews calling out to the men to clear the grounds, and see that the gates are shut; ah, bang goes the front gate. Well, I should think the poor man might be tired by this time. I should think he might come in and leave things in charge of some of those men who have been working with him."

The clock in the parlor struck ten, and then half-past. Eliza, who had been watching the children, and making up some beds above, now came down and begged Mrs. Varian to come up and go to bed, but she refused. The other servants, who had been over at the fire, possibly helping a little, now came in, bringing a message from Mr. Andrews, that he begged they would all go to bed; and that everything was safe and they must feel no anxiety. It might be some time before he could get away. Missy persuaded her aunt and her mother to go up. Eliza conducted Miss Varian to a small "spare" room. Missy felt a shudder as she put down her candle on the dressing-table of the room where she had seen Mrs. Andrews die. She hoped her mother did not know it.

While she was arranging her for the night, she had time to observe the room. It was very much changed since she had last been in it; the pictures were taken from the walls, the position of the furniture altered, she was not sure but that it was other furniture. Certainly the sofa and footstool and large chair were gone. Mr. Andrews himself occupied the small room on the other side of the house that he had had from the first. This room, the largest and best in the house, had been kept as a sort of day nursery for the children through the winter. Missy had often thought of it as calculated to keep alive the memory of their mother, but now it seemed, as if with purpose, that had been avoided, and as if the whole past of the room was to be wiped out.

It could be no chance that had worked such a change. There were holes still in the wall where a bracket had been taken down. A new clock was on the mantelpiece; there was literally not a thing left the same, not even the carpet on the floor. It gave her a feeling of resentment; but this was not the moment to feel resentment. So she went softly down the stairs, telling her mother to try to sleep, and she would wait up, and see if she could do anything more than thank Mr. Andrews when he came in. This was no more than civil; but strangely, Missy did not feel civil, as she sat counting the minutes in the parlor below. She felt as if it were odious to be there, odious to feel that he was working for them, that she must be grateful to him. All her past prejudices, which had been dying out in the silence of the last few months, and under the knowledge of his steady kindness to his children, came back as she went up into that room, which, to her vivid imagination, must always bring back the most painful scene she had ever witnessed. She had never expected to enter this house again, at least while its present tenants occupied it, and here she was, and certain to stay here for one night and day at least. She had had none of these feelings as she sat during the evening silently thankful beside her mother; all this tumult of resentment had come since she had gone up-stairs. The memory of the beautiful young creature, whose dreadful death she had witnessed, came back to her with strange power; and the thought that she had been banished from her children's minds made her almost vindictive. How can I speak to him? how have I ever spoken to him? she thought, as her eyes wandered around the room, searching for some trace of her. But it was thoroughly a man's apartment, "bachelor quarters" indeed. Not a picture of the woman whose beauty would have graced a palace; not a token that she had ever been under this roof, that she had died here less than a year ago. The nurse had come into the room as Missy sat waiting, and, seeming to divine her thought, said, while she put straight chairs and books:

"Isn't it strange, Miss Rothermel, that there isn't any picture of Mrs. Andrews anywhere about the house? I should think their father would be afraid of the children forgetting all about her. I often talk to them about her, but I don't know much to say, because none of us ever saw her; and Mr. Andrews never talks about her to them, and I am sure Jay doesn't remember her at all. There was once a little box that Jay dragged out of a closet in the attic, and in the evening after he found it, he was playing with it in the parlor by his father, and Gabby caught sight of it, and cried, 'That's my mamma's box; give it to me, Jay.' They had a little quarrel for it, and Gabby got it, and then Jay forgot all about it, and went to play with something else. But," went on Eliza, lowering her voice, "that evening I saw Mr. Andrews, after the children had gone to bed, empty all Gabrielle's things out of the box, and carry it up stairs, and put it away in a locked-up closet in the hall."

"Probably he wanted to punish her for taking it away from Jay," said Missy, insincerely, feeling all the time that it was not the thing for her to be allowing Eliza to tell her this.

"No," said Eliza, "for he brought her home a beautiful new box the next evening, and he wouldn't have done that if he had wished to punish her, I think."

"Eliza, don't you think you'd better see if the fire is good in the kitchen? Mr. Andrews might want a cup of coffee made, or something cooked to eat. He must be very tired."

Eliza meekly received her dismissal, and went into the kitchen. At half-past eleven o'clock Missy heard the gate open, and went forward to meet Mr. Andrews at the door.

"You are very tired," she said, falteringly.

"I believe I am," he returned, following her into the parlor. She was shocked when she saw him fully in the light of the lamp. He looked tired indeed, and begrimed with smoke, his coat torn, his arm tied up in a rude fashion, as if it had been hurt.

"Sit down," she said, hurriedly pulling out a chair. He stumbled into it.

"I really didn't know how tired I was," he said, laying back his head.

"Can't I get you some coffee, or some wine? You ought to take something at once, I think."

"I'd like a glass of wine," he said, rather faintly. "Here's the key. You'll find it in the sideboard."

But when he attempted to get the hand that wasn't bandaged into his pocket, he stopped, with a gesture of pain.

"Confound it!" he said; "it's a strain, I suppose;" and then he grew rather white.

"Let me get it," said Missy, hurriedly.

"The inside pocket of my coat—left side," he said. She fumbled in the pocket, rather agitatedly, feeling very sorry that he was so suffering, but not sorry enough to make her forget that it was very awkward for her to be bending over him and searching in his inside pocket for a key. At last she found it, and ran and fetched the wine. He seemed a little better when he drank it.

"What is the matter with your arm?" she said, standing by him to take back the glass.

"A ladder fell on it," he said.

"And you sent for the doctor, did you?"

"The doctor, no! What time has there been to be sending off for doctors?" he returned, rather impatiently, turning himself in the chair, but with a groan. Missy ran out of the room, and in two minutes somebody was on the way to the village for the doctor. Eliza came back into the room with her.

"Can't you get on the sofa? and we'll make you easier," said Missy, standing by him.

But he shook his head. "I think I'll rest a little here," he said, "and then get to my room."

"I know; I've sent for the doctor, but I am afraid it will be some time before he comes. I thought I might be doing something for your hand that's strained; I am afraid to meddle with your arm. Do you think your shoulder's out of place, or anything like that?"

"No, I hardly think it is," he said. "It's more likely nothing but a bruise; but it hurts like—thunder!"

This last came from an attempt to get out of his chair. Missy shook up the pillows of the sofa.

"See," she said, "you'll be more comfortable here; let Eliza help you." He submitted, and got to the sofa. "Now, before you lie down, let us get your coat off," she said. She felt as if he were Jay, and must be coaxed. But getting the coat off was not an easy matter; in fact, it was an impossible matter.

"It's torn a good deal," she said; "you wouldn't care if I got the scissors and cut it a little?"

"Cut it into slivers!" he said, concisely. He was evidently feeling concisely, poor man!

Eliza flew for the scissors; in a moment Missy's pretty fingers had done the work, and the poor mutilated coat fell to the floor, a sacrifice to neighborly devotion. "Now run and get me a pail of boiling water, and some flannels—quick. In the meantime, Mr. Andrews, turn your hand a little; I want to get at the button of your sleeve. Oh, dear! don't move it; I see. Here go the scissors again. I'll mend the sleeve for you, I promise; it's the least that I can do. There! now it's all right. Now let me get this towel under your wrist. Ah! I know it hurt; but it had to be done. Now here's the hot water. Eliza, kneel here by Mr. Andrews; and as fast as I hand you the flannel, put it on his wrist—see, just there."

Missy withdrew, and gave her place to Eliza; but the first touch of her hands to the flannel which she was to wring out made her jump so, she felt sure she never could do justice to them.

"You'd better let me wring out the flannels, Miss Rothermel, and you put them on," said Eliza. "My hands are used to hot water." So Missy went back to her place, and knelt beside her patient, taking the steaming flannels from Eliza's hand, and putting them on his wrist. Before she put each one on, she held it up against her cheek, to see that it was not too hot. She was as gentle and as tender and as coaxing as if she were taking care of little Jay. It is a question how much sentiment a man in severe pain is capable of feeling. But certainly it ought to have been a solace to any one to be tended by such a sweet little nurse as this. Who would think that she could spit fire, or snub her neighbors, or "boss" it, even over servants?

Missy was a born nurse. She was quick-witted, nimble-fingered, sure-footed, and she was coaxing and tender when people were "down." She was absolutely sweet when any one was cornered or prostrate, and couldn't do any way but hers.

The hot cloths, which had stung him a little at first, soon began to relieve the pain in his wrist.

"There, now, I told you it would. You were so good to let us do it. Do bear it a little longer, please."

Missy's eyes had wandered to the clock many times, and her ears had been strained to catch the sound of the doctor's steps outside. But it was now an hour since the messenger had gone, and it was very certain he could not have been at home. When he might come, how many miles away he was at this moment, it was impossible to guess. She knew very well that the other arm was the real trouble; and she knew, too, that leaving it for so many hours unattended to might make it a bad business. Her experience never had gone beyond sprains and bruises, but she had the courage of genius; she would have tackled a compound fracture if it had come in her way.

"That tiresome doctor," she said, sweetly. "I wonder when he'll get here. See, I've muffled up the wrist in this hot bandage. Now suppose we try if we can't do something for this arm over here. I'll be ever so gentle. Now see, I didn't hurt you much before."

Mr. Andrews' face contracted with pain as she touched his wounded arm, even in the lightest manner. In fact, he was bearing as much pain as he thought he could, without having it touched. But it wasn't in nature to resist her, and he turned a little on his side, and the scissors flew up his sleeve and laid bare the bruised, discolored arm.

"You see," she said, softly getting a piece of oil-silk under it, "if it is only bruised this will help it, and if it's broken or out of joint or anything, it will not do any harm. It doesn't hurt you when I touch it here, does it?" she went on, watching his face keenly as she passed her hand lightly over his shoulder.

"It hurts everywhere," he answered groaning, but he did not wince particularly.

"I don't believe there's any dislocation," she said cheerfully, though not too cheerfully, for she knew better than to do that, when any one was suffering. "I don't believe there's any dislocation, and if there isn't, I'll soon relieve you, if you'll let me try." Eliza came back with more hot water, and again for a patient half hour the wringing of flannels and the application of them went on. At the end of that time, Missy began to think there was something besides sprain and bruise, for the patient was growing pale, and the pain was manifestly not abating. She gave him some more wine, and bathed his head, and fanned him, and wished for the doctor. There was no medicine in the house with which she was familiar. Her own beloved weapons were now out of reach, and she could not bring herself to give opium and the horrid drugs in which this benighted gentleman still believed. Ignatia, camomilla, moschus! Ah, what she might have done for him, if she could have known where to lay her hand on her tiny case of medicines. She gave him more wine; that was the only thing left for her to do, since he would probably not submit to letting her set his arm, which she was now convinced was broken. She felt quite capable of doing it, or of doing anything rather than sitting still and seeing him suffer. She privately dispatched Eliza to get bandages, and her work-basket, and to replenish the fire in the range.

At last, at a few minutes before two o'clock, the welcome sound of the doctor's gig driving to the gate, met her ear. She let him in, while Eliza sat beside the patient. He looked surprised to see her, and they both thought involuntarily of the last time they had been together in this house.

"You are a good neighbor," he said, taking off his hat and coat in the hall.

"We have had a good neighbor to-night in Mr. Andrews," said Missy, with a little stiffness. "He has made himself ill in our service, and we feel as if we could not do too much in taking care of him."

"Certainly," said the doctor, searching for his case of instruments in his pocket. "You have had a great fire, I hear. How much damage has been done?"

"I do not know at all. I had to stay with my mother, and Mr. Andrews is in too much pain since he came in, to answer any questions. I am very much afraid his arm is broken."

"Indeed," said the doctor, comfortably, shaking down the collar of his coat, which had been somewhat disarranged in the taking off of the superior garment. It seemed as if he were trying how long he could be about it.

Missy fumed.

"Now," he said, following her into the room. He seated himself by the patient in a chair which Missy had set for him when she heard the gate open, and asked him many questions, and poked about his arm and shoulder and seemed to try to be as long in making up his mind as he had been in getting ready to come in.

"Well?" said Missy at last, feeling she could not bear it any longer.

Mr. Andrews' face had expressed that he was about at the end of his patience several minutes before.

It was hoping too much, that he should tell them at once what was the matter; but by and by it was allowed them to infer that Mr. Andrews' arm was broken in two places; that the shoulder was all right, and that the wrist was only sprained, and was much the better for the treatment it had had. He praised Missy indirectly for her promptness, told her Mr. Andrews might thank her for at least one hand—which he could undoubtedly have the use of in a few days. Mr. Andrews' face showed he wasn't prepared for being helpless for even a few days. The pain, great as it was, could not prevent his disgust at this.

"And how long before my arm will be fit to use?" he said shortly.

"Better get it into the splints before we decide when we shall take it out," said the doctor, with complacence, taking out his case of instruments.

He enjoyed his case of instruments, and there was so little use for it at Yellowcoats. It was on his tongue to say something discouraging about the length of the confinement probable, but Missy gave him a warning look, and said cheerfully, "a broken arm is nothing; I've always thought it the nicest accident that any one could have. Besides, it is your left arm. You won't mind the sling at all, if you do have to wear it for a few days longer than you might think necessary. St. John broke his arm once when he was a boy, and it was really nothing. We were surprised to find how soon it was all well."

Missy spoke as if she knew all about it.

"Then you know how to help me with the bandages?" the doctor said.

"Oh, yes, I remember quite well."

By the time that the arm was set, and the patient helped into his room by the doctor and Eliza, Missy had decided that Mr. Andrews bore pain pretty well for a man, and that the doctor was even stupider than she had thought. She also arrived at the conclusion that the whole situation was as awkward as possible, when the door closed upon the object of her solicitude, and she realized that she could do him no further good. It was only then that she became aware that she was deeply interested in the case. To do her justice, if it had been Eliza's arm she would have suffered a pang in giving it up. She was naturally a nurse, and naturally enthusiastic. She had made up her mind to disregard the doctor's orders totally and give the patient homeopathic treatment, according to her lights. But here was conventionality coming in. She must give him up, and he was no doubt to be shut up in that room for a day or two at least, to be stupefied with narcotics, and then dosed with tonics. Missy clenched her little tired hands together. Why could Eliza go in and take care of him, and she not? She could not influence him through Eliza, or Melinda, or the waitress. She must give up conventionality or homeopathy. It was a struggle, but conventionality won.

CHAPTER XIII.

MINE HOST.

Of this she was very glad the next morning: conventionality is best by daylight. She woke with a feeling that it was exceedingly awkward to be in Mr. Andrews' house, and to have no house of her own to go to. When she came down-stairs, Eliza was just putting Mr. Andrews' breakfast on a tray. She said he had had no sleep, and seemed to be uncomfortable. The breakfast-tray did not look very inviting, so Missy reconstructed it and sent it in, brightened with some white grapes that the gardener had just brought to the door, and three or four soft-looking roses, with the dew upon them.

"Tell Mr. Andrews I hope he will let us know if there is anything we can do for him," she said, half ashamed, as Eliza went up-stairs with the tray.

By this time Miss Varian had come down-stairs, and Goneril, very tired and cross, twitched some chairs and a footstool about for her; and Anne, looking oddly out of place, came in to know if she should carry Mrs. Varian's breakfast up to her. It was all very strange and uncomfortable. The servants had evidently spent much of their time in talking over the incidents of the fire, and Melinda was late with her breakfast. Missy couldn't imagine where they had all slept; but here they all were—two cooks in the kitchen, two waitresses in the dining-room, two maids in the parlor, and no breakfast ready. Miss Varian felt very irritable; the children had waked her by five o'clock with their noise, and she could not go to sleep again. The absence of her usual toilet luxuries exasperated her, and all the philosophy which she had displayed the night before forsook her. She scolded everybody, including Mr. Andrews, who was to blame for having such a hard bed in his spare room, and the cook, who was so late in getting breakfast ready. Missy disdained to answer her, but she felt as cross, in her way. The children, who had been sent out of doors to allow Miss Varian to go to sleep again, now came bursting in, and made matters worse by their noise. They were full of news about the fire, and, to judge by their smutty hands and aprons, had been cruising round the forbidden spot.

"Jay, if you love me," said Missy, putting her hands to her ears, "be quiet and don't talk any more about the fire. Let me eat my breakfast, and forget my miseries."

But Gabrielle could not be silenced, though Jay, when the hominy came, gave himself to that. She always had information to impart, and this occasion was too great to be lost. She told Missy everything she didn't want to hear, from the destruction of the flowerbeds by the crowd, to the remarks of the boys at the stable, about her father's broken arm.

"They said he was a fool, to work so hard for nothing; they expected to be paid, but he didn't. Then Peters said 'maybe he expects to be paid as well as you,' and then they all laughed. What did they all laugh for, Missy, and do you suppose my father does expect to be paid?"

"I suppose you were where you had no business to be," said Missy, shortly. "Now, if you will eat your breakfast, and be silent, we shall thank you."

Then Gabby retired into the hominy and there was a silence if not a peace. It was a dull morning—much fog, and little life in the air. Missy hadn't even looked out of the window. She dreaded the thought of what she was to see on the other side of the hedge. If it had been possible, she would have delayed the work that lay before her; but she was goaded on now by the thought that if she did not hurry, they must spend another night here, and eat another breakfast to the accompaniment of Gabby's information and observation. It was ten o'clock before she could get away, leaving directions to the servants to follow her.

It was a dismal scene; the faultless lawn trampled and torn up, the vines torn from the piazza and lying stretched and straggling on the ground. The windows were curtainless, the piazza steps broken, the piazza piled with ladders and steps and buckets; the front door had a black eye. There was at this side of the house not much evidence of the fire, but at the rear it was much worse. The summer parlor was badly damaged, the sashes quite burnt black, the ceiling all defaced. The flames had reached the room above, Missy's own room, and here had been stayed. The windows were broken out, a good deal of the woodwork charred, and the walls much damaged with water. These two rooms were all that were seriously injured. It was quite wonderful that the damage had gone no further; there had been no wind, and Mr. Andrews had been on the spot; if they had not had these two things in their favor, the house must have gone. Peters had shown himself a respectable donkey, and none of the women but Goneril proved to have any head in such an emergency. Missy tried to be comforted by the smallness of the material injury. But the desolation and disorder of the pretty rooms! In her own, Missy fairly cried. She felt completely dépaysée. A few hundred dollars and a few weeks would put it all in order again, but Missy was not in a philosophic mood. She felt herself an outcast and a wanderer, and turning bitterly from the scorched spot, vowed never to love anything again.

By this time the clumsy Peters and the headless maids had come up to be set to work. So turning the keys on the damaged rooms, she followed them out and began to try roughly to get the furniture back into the rooms to which it belonged. Her ambition, at present, was to get her mother's and her aunt's rooms in order to have them return that night, and the kitchen so far reconstructed that the servants might do their work. But at night-fall, the prospect was so dismal, the hall so encumbered with unbestowed goods, the workmen so tardy, the progress so small, that Missy reluctantly acknowledged she would be cruel to her mother, if she insisted on bringing her back to such a scene of desolation. She must be contented to accept Mr. Andrews' considerate hospitality. He had sent over Eliza with a message at lunch time, in which he took it for granted that they were to stay there for the present, and covered all the ground of an invitation, and was less offensive. It was understood and inevitable, and so she tried to take it.

The rain came down heavily at six o'clock; as she locked herself out of the front door, and wrapping her waterproof around her, went down the wet steps, and out on the soaking ground, feeling tired and heartsick, she could not but contrast the scene with that of last evening, when, under the smiling rosy sunset, she had come down the steps on her way out to her stolen row upon the bay. It seemed a year ago, instead of a day. Ann followed close behind her, with various articles for the comfort of her mother. At the door of the Andrews' house Ann took off her mistress' waterproof and overshoes.

"I am almost too tired to speak, Ann," she said. "I shall go up-stairs and lie down, and you may bring me a cup of tea. I don't want any dinner."

But once up-stairs, Missy found she must change her plans, and forget her weariness. Her mother was quite unable to go down to dinner; indeed, was only waiting for her tea, to try to quiet herself with a view to getting a tolerable night. Miss Varian had a violent attack of neuralgia; the whole house had been laid under tribute to alleviate her sufferings. She was to have her dinner in bed, and had ordered the house to be kept perfectly quiet after she had partaken of that meal. Eliza, the waitress, no less than Goneril, had been actively running up and down stairs, to take her orders to the kitchen. Melinda had received directions from Mr. Andrews to cook an unusually elaborate dinner, to do honor to the guests. Ann had confided this to Mrs. Varian in the afternoon. She thought it such a pity, for she knew nobody would eat it. And now, when Missy told her mother, as she took off her hat, that she was going to lie down and have a cup of tea, Mrs. Varian made an exclamation of regret.