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diff --git a/40129-8.txt b/40129-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3cb6ac9..0000000 --- a/40129-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12317 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Missy, by Miriam Coles Harris - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Missy - A Novel - -Author: Miriam Coles Harris - -Release Date: July 3, 2012 [EBook #40129] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISSY *** - - - - -Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Cathy Maxam, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - 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. - - - [Illustration] - - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY - The Riverside Press, Cambridge - - - - - Copyright, 1880, - BY G. W. CARLETON & CO. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. Yellowcoats 9 - - II. St. John 26 - - III. The First Sermon 45 - - IV. The People next Door 49 - - V. Gabby and Jay 66 - - VI. A Passing Soul 74 - - VII. Misrule 94 - - VIII. A Tea-Table Truce 109 - - IX. The Sweets of Victory 118 - - X. Per Aspera ad Astra 156 - - XI. My Duty to my Neighbor 175 - - XII. Fire and Sword 190 - - XIII. Mine Host 211 - - XIV. Yellowcoats Calls to Inquire 227 - - XV. A Misogynist 240 - - XVI. Alphonsine 262 - - XVII. Enter Miss Varian 293 - - XVIII. At the Beach Gate 301 - - XIX. Five Candles 305 - - XX. The Honeyed Cousins 320 - - XXI. Mrs. Hazard Smatter 332 - - XXII. A Garden Party 344 - - XXIII. P. P. C. 351 - - XXIV. Shut and Barred 363 - - XXV. Amice, ascende superius 366 - - XXVI. The Brook in the Way 379 - - XXVII. Sanctuary 383 - - XXVIII. Vespers 387 - - XXIX. Surrender 397 - - - - -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. - -"The meals that have gone up and down stairs to-day in this house!" she -said. "Mr. Andrews, poor man, doesn't eat much, but it has to be carried -to him. And your aunt has had her lunch in many varieties, and now her -dinner. And I, alas! And now, if you can't go down, my dear, and the -fine dinner has to go off the table without any one even to look at it, -it will be unfortunate. You don't think you could go down just for the -form of it, and try to eat something? Eliza has had to get out some of -the silver that has been packed away, and I have heard much consultation -outside about table-cloths. It does seem very awkward. Three guests, and -all demanding to be served with dinner in their own rooms. Poor Missy, -it always comes on you. There now, don't mind a word of what I've said, -but stay here and rest, I know you need it." - -For Missy had thrown herself down into a chair, and looked just ready to -cry. She was quite overstrained, and if ever any woman needed a cup of -tea and the luxury of being let alone, that woman was Missy. - -"Of course I can go down," said Missy, with something between sobbing -and spitting fire. "I can do anything in the world--but hold my tongue," -she added, as she saw her mother look distressed. "Oh, of course I'll go -down, I don't really mind it. I shan't have even to smooth my hair. For -as there will be no critics but the children and the waitress, I may be -saved that effort. I suppose I must praise the dinner liberally, to make -Melinda happy. Oh, I _am_ so tired. My hands feel as if they were full -of splinters and nails, and I can't go across the room to wash them. I -wonder if the waitress would care if I didn't wash them. I'm sure I -shouldn't. By the way, I must ring for Ann and tell her I am going down -to dinner, or the best table-cloth will be taken off before I see it." - -Ann took down the message in time to stay the spoliation of the table, -and when dinner was served, came up to say so to her mistress. She was -too tired to do more than wash her hands; she did not even look in the -glass. She felt hysterical as well as weary, and said to herself, if -Gabrielle says anything hateful, I shall certainly make a scene. The -lights hurt her eyes as she went into the dining-room. Jay laid hold of -her hand, and kissed it with fervor, and then pulled a bow off the side -of her dress, to make up for the caress. - -"So we are to have dinner together, are we, you and I and Gabby," she -said, sinking into her chair, and pointing Jay to his. - -"And papa," said Gabby, with a keenly interested look. "Didn't you know -he was coming down to dinner?" - -"No," said Missy, feeling herself grow red. "I thought he wasn't well -enough." - -At this moment, the door opened, and Mr. Andrews came in. - -"I did not think you were able to come down," Missy said, rather -awkwardly, rising. "You must excuse me--for--for taking my seat before -you came." - -"It was so tiresome staying up stairs," said Mr. Andrews simply, and -they took their places silently. - -The two children's seats had been placed opposite to Missy. But Jay -refused to submit to this arrangement, and kicked against the table legs -and cried till he was carried around to sit by Missy. He certainly -behaved very badly, and made them all uncomfortable. Then, when they had -got partly over this, and were trying to talk a little, Gabby took -occasion to say, when there was a pause in the rather forced -conversation, critically looking across at Missy: - -"If you had known papa was coming down, would you have brushed your -hair, do you think, Missy?" - -The waitress, Missy was sure, suppressed a sudden giggle. Missy was so -angry, and so agitated, she grew pale instead of red. - -"I am sure I should," she said, deliberately, looking at her. "And -perhaps, have put another cravat on, for this one, I am afraid, is -rather dusty." - -"Why didn't you put it on any way," said Jay. - -"Why, because little children are not supposed to know or care; but for -grown people, we have to try to be polite." - -These brave words over, Missy felt she had done all that was possible in -self-defense, and began to feel as if she should cry at the next -assault. Poor Mr. Andrews looked bitterly annoyed. He was so pale and -ill-looking, and had made such an effort to come down and be hospitable, -that Missy's heart was softened. She resolved to make it easy for him, -so she began to talk about the condition of the house and to ask -questions and get advice. But the poor man was too ill, and too -straightforward to talk about anything he wasn't thinking about. The -presence of Gabrielle made him nervous as a woman; every time she opened -her mouth, if only to ask for a glass of water, he was sure she was -going to say something terrible. Such a dinner. Melinda's nice dishes -went away almost untouched, almost unseen. At last Gabrielle, reassured -by the subjection in which she found her elders, ventured upon that -which lay nearest her heart, namely, the topic of discussion in the -stable that morning. - -"Papa," she said, in a very insinuating voice, and with a glance around, -"_do_ you expect to be paid for--" - -But Missy was too quick for her. She started to her feet, the color -flaming to her face. - -"Gabrielle, I forbid you to speak another word while I am in the room. -Mr. Andrews, you must excuse me--I am very sorry to make you so -uncomfortable, but I cannot--stand it--any longer," and with an -hysterical choke she sprang to the door. - -When she was gone, I wouldn't have been in Gabby's place for a good -deal. Fortunately the waitress was out of the room when the fracas -occurred, and when she came back, she was at liberty to suppose that the -furious punishment bestowed upon Gabrielle was in consequence of an -overturned glass of wine which was bedewing the best table-cloth. Some -gentlemen are so particular about their table linen. She had not seen -this side of Mr. Andrews' character before, but then, to be sure, they -had never used the best linen since she had been in the family. - -When Missy, panting and hysterical, reached the top of the stairs, she -didn't know exactly what to do. She knew very well if she took refuge in -her mother's room (which was her own, too), she destroyed all chance of -sleep for her mother that night. She couldn't go into the nursery, where -Gabby would probably be sent for punishment. She couldn't seek the sweet -shelter of Miss Harriet Varian's sympathy, and it wasn't dignified to -sit on the stairs. What was she to do? Just at this moment, Goneril came -softly out of her mistress' room. - -"Is Miss Varian asleep?" asked Missy, in a low tone. - -"Heaven be praised, SHE IS!" returned Goneril, with great fervor. - -"Then I will go and sit by her till you get your dinner," she said, -going past her into the room. Here was refuge and darkness, and she sat -down in an easy chair near the door. How little consolation there was in -being quiet, though, and thinking. She was so enraged--so humiliated. -She had fought clear of the embarrassment and disgrace of last autumn, -and had flattered herself she had conquered both herself and gossip; -and now it was all to be done over again. She had no heart to begin -again. She was going away. She would go away. There was no reason she -should not have her way, sometimes. There was a good excuse for a -summer's absence. They would leave the carpenters and painters in the -house--she didn't care for the house now, and what they did to it--and -they would go to the mountains till she had got over this miserable -sensitiveness, and till the Andrews' had got tired of Yellowcoats. Oh, -that that might be soon! She never wanted to see one of the name again, -not even Jay. (She had had these reflections before, and had thought -better of them, at least as concerned Jay.) By and by, while she was -still solacing herself with plans for flight, she heard the children -come up-stairs, Jay fretting, as if he felt the discomfort in the air. -Gabrielle was very silent. Eliza was rather hurried; she was human, -though a good nurse, and there was a large and cheerful circle sitting -down around the kitchen table to an unusually good dinner. It was rather -hard lines to be putting the children to bed, when they ought to have -stayed up, as they always did, until she had had her dinner. Now -everything seemed out of joint for some reason, and the children as -troublesome as possible. Eliza, excellent servant though she was, was -but a servant, and to sit pat-patting Jay, while the festive circle -down-stairs were getting through the choicest bits of pastry and of -gossip, required more patience than she had. The children were hustled -into their night-clothes rather hastily. Gabrielle, sulky and white, -offered only slight petulant resistance, but Jay cried and grew -worse-tempered every minute. At last Eliza got them both into bed and -turned down the lamp. - -"Now go to sleep, like a good boy," she said, tucking in the clothes of -Jay's crib; but there was restlessness in her very tone, and though she -sat down, she did not convey the idea of permanence, and Jay grew wider -awake every moment, watching lest she should go away. At length, -starting up impatiently, she cried: - -"There's reason in all things. You're big enough to go to sleep by -yourself. I must have my dinner." - -And without a look behind, she hurried from the room. This had never -happened before. She had always occupied herself in putting away the -children's clothes, and in moving softly about the room, and singing in -a low voice; and so Jay, without being absolutely coddled, had always -fallen asleep with a sense of protection and companionship. But to-night -everything was going wrong. Here was papa in such an awful way, and -Missy running away from the table crying, and Gabby scared to death and -punished--and now his nurse getting cross, and going down and leaving -him all alone in the dark. There had been vague and terrible stories of -what came in the dark, during the reign of Alphonsine and Bridget, which -had not been quite obliterated. - -Jay lay mute with amazement for a moment; and then, sitting up in bed, -and looking into the dimness surrounding him, began to cry piteously, -and to call upon Eliza to come back. But Eliza was out of reach of his -cries now, and Gabby, stubborn and wicked, would not open her lips. He -cried and sobbed till his throat felt sore and his head burning. - -"Missy, Missy! I want you, Missy!" - -Missy had listened, with vexation at Eliza, but with no intention of -taking up her duties, till that plaintive cry smote her heart and melted -it. The poor little lonely child, with no love but the unsteady love of -hirelings! She started up and stole into the nursery. The cry with which -Jay flung himself into her arms made him dearer to her than ever before. -He clung to her, all trembling and beating, his wet little face buried -in her neck. - -"You won't go away and leave me, you won't, promise me, Missy, you won't -go." - -"No, Jay, my own little man, I won't. Lie down; I promise you, I'll -stay." - -Every one else had failed him, but he still believed in Missy. So he was -pacified and reassured, and after awhile lay down, holding both her -hands. She let down the side of his crib, and sitting beside him, laid -her head on his pillow; he put one hand on her throat, and held the -other tight in one of hers, and so, after awhile, he fell asleep. But a -ground-swell of sobs still heaved his breast after such a heavy storm. -Missy held the little warm hand tight, and kissed him in his sleep. She -had promised not to go, and she dared not move his hand from her neck, -nor stir her head from the pillow for fear of waking him. - -The room was still and dim, and she was very tired, by and by the -troubles of the day melted into dreams, and she slept. How long, she -could not tell. A light gleaming in her face aroused her; she started up -in sudden consternation, for Mr. Andrews stood looking at her, in, it -must be said, equal consternation. He had moved the screen from the -nursery lamp, and coming up to the bed to look at his boy, had seen the -not unpretty, but very unexpected picture of the two sleeping in this -close embrace. - -Missy's first feeling was one of anger; but surely Mr. Andrews had a -right in his own nursery, and, as usual, she was in the wrong--she was -where she had no business to be; her bitter vexation showed itself on -her face. - -"I beg your pardon," he said, stepping back, "I--I didn't know you were -here." - -"Jay cried so, I came in to pacify him," she said, "and he would not let -me go." - -"You are very kind to him," said the father earnestly. - -"Not particularly," she returned, fastening up the side of the crib, and -laying him softly further over on his pillow. "One doesn't like to see a -child imposed upon, and Eliza was very wrong to leave him." - -"Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews, still earnestly, and Miss Rothermel -prepared herself for something she did not want to hear, "I have no -words to express to you the annoyance that I feel about Gabrielle." - -Missy waved her hand impatiently. - -"But I have words to express a resolution that I have formed this -evening, and that is, that it shall be the last time that you shall -suffer from her. I shall send her away to boarding-school as soon as I -can make the necessary arrangements; and that I hope will be within a -week, at furthest." - -It was now Missy's turn to be in earnest. - -"I hope you won't do anything of the kind, Mr. Andrews, on my account at -least. I can only assure you, it would be far more annoying than -anything she has ever done. I should never forgive myself for having -caused you to do what I am quite sure would be the worst thing for her. -She is very well situated now. You have good servants, she has the free -country life she needs, and no bad companions. If she can't improve now, -I'm afraid she never will." - -"I'm afraid she never will, wherever she may be," answered Mr. Andrews, -with almost a groan. "I could tell you something of her, if--if--" - -"I am sure of one thing," rushed on Missy, not heeding what she might -have heard if she had listened; "I am sure of one thing, I should never -have a moment's peace, if I felt I had been in any way the cause of -sending from her home such a desolate little child. I cannot forget that -I had a friendship for her mother, and I should be always followed by -the thought of her reproach." - -Mr. Andrews' face changed; he bent his head slightly. The change was not -lost on Missy. - -"Besides that feeling," she said, with a touch of bitterness, "which, I -have no doubt, you look upon as a weak piece of sentiment, I don't see -what difference her going or staying can make to me. It would be a pity -to do her an injury which would do no one any good. I shall not -necessarily see her half-a-dozen times, before we go away, which, I -hope, we shall do for the summer, very shortly. And when we come back -Jay will have forgotten me, or you will all, perhaps, have left the -place. It is really too much said already on a subject which is very -insignificant, though it has proved sufficiently disagreeable." And she -moved as if to go away. - -"I quite agree with you that it has been very disagreeable; but I don't -entirely see that what you have said alters my duty in the matter. I -think she has deserved to be sent away; I am not sure that the -discipline of a school would not be the best thing for her. I am quite -sure that it is not my duty to destroy my own peace, or deprive my -little boy of friends or kindness, by keeping her at home." - -"Not your duty, Mr. Andrews!" cried Missy. "Well, of course we look at -things from such different points, it's no use discussing--" - -"We will waive the discussion of my duty," said Mr. Andrews, not -urbanely; "but I should be very glad to know why you think it would hurt -Gabrielle to send her to a good school?" - -Like all home-bred girls, she had a great horror of boarding-schools, -and with vivacity gave a dozen reasons for her horror, winding up -with--"I believe it would make her a hundred times more deceitful than -she is now. It would establish her thirst for intrigue; it would -estrange her from you; it would deprive her of the little healthy love -that she has for out-door life and innocent amusement. If you want to -ruin Gabrielle, Mr. Andrews, _pray_ send her to a boarding-school!" - -"I don't want to ruin Gabrielle, but I want to have a little peace -myself, and to let my neighbors have some, too." - -"Your neighbors' peace needn't be considered, after--after we go away -from the house; and I am sure you have frightened her enough to-night to -make her behave better while we are obliged to stay with you." - -As soon as the words were out, Missy shivered at their sound. She did -not mean to be so rude. - -"I beg your pardon," she said, not with successful penitence; "but you -know we did not impose our selves upon you from choice." - -"I know you would not have come if you could have helped it, certainly. -I am not to blame for that, however." - -"Well, I'm sure I didn't mean to blame any one. You must excuse me; I am -very tired to-night. Only let Gabrielle's matter be considered settled, -won't you? I shall thank you very much, if you will promise me she -shan't be sent away." - -The father glanced at the small white bed, where Gabrielle lay -motionless, with her eyes shut and her face turned from them, presumably -asleep. - -"I won't take any step about sending her away, if you feel so about -it--for a little while, at least." - -"Very well; thank you! Then it is settled. Good night." And Missy went -away, not exactly, it must be owned, as if she had received a favor, but -as if hardly-wrung justice had been obtained for Gabrielle and -Gabrielle's dead mother. That, at least, was how she felt--and Mr. -Andrews wasn't altogether stupid. He sighed as he bent over Jay's crib, -and smoothed the hair back on his pillow, screening the light from his -eyes, and turning down the lamp; but he did not go near the bed of the -offending Gabrielle, and left the room without another glance in her -direction. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -YELLOWCOATS CALLS TO INQUIRE. - - -The next morning, Missy managed to get away without encountering any one -more formidable than Jay and the servants. Mr. Andrews probably made an -intentionally late breakfast, and Gabrielle was more than willing to -keep out of sight. Matters at the house she found in worse confusion -than ever. The only plumber in the village was more eminent for -good-nature than for skill. He doctored furnaces and ranges, cooking -stoves and "air-tights," but it must be said he was more successful with -the latter. Water-backs, and traps, and reservoirs had grown up since he -learned his trade, but, like a good-natured creature, he put his hand to -whatever was asked of him, and sometimes succeeded in patching up leaks, -and sometimes didn't. He was the worst berated man in Yellowcoats, but -in the greatest demand. No one's wrath lasted out the first glance of -his good-humored face. He never thought of keeping his word; indeed, it -would have needed a great deal of principle to do it. The one that was -first, got him, whether prince or peasant, and generally found it -necessary to mount guard over him till the job was finished. He was -willing to work all day, and all night, irrespective of meals or sleep. -Such good-nature could not fail to be rewarded, and so every one "put -up" with him, and he was not supplanted. - -His yesterday's work at the Varians', however, had not been a success. -He had left the range in a lamentable condition; something very -distressing was the matter with the water-back, and the fire could not -be made. The house-cleaners were all at a loss for hot water; trusting -in his promise to be on hand the first thing in the morning, they had -all waited for him, without sending in to Miss Rothermel. Upon inquiry, -it was found that a magnate in the horse-and-cow business, some miles -distant, had come to grief in the matter of his tin roof, and had -captured Mike at an early hour, and was probably even now mounting guard -over him, and it was believed that no threats or entreaties would induce -him to give him up till the roof was water-tight. As it was a very bad -roof, and had been in Mike's hands for years, it seemed probable that -nothing short of a day or two would answer for its repair. Still, -several hours of Peters' time was taken up in going over to appeal to -the sense of honor of the horse-and-cow man. In the meanwhile, it was -deplorable to see what a motive power hot water was, and how difficult -it was to get it, when once one has come to depend upon a boiler. Very -little could be done except in the small matter of putting drawers and -closets in order. The women sat about the kitchen and berated Mike, -unable even to get a bit of dinner cooked. - -At three o'clock, Peters returned to say that there was no hope. The -horse-and-cow man had taken the ladder away from the roof, and declared -Mike shouldn't come down till the leaks were stopped, if it took him -till November. Of course the house could not be habitable till the range -was in order. Missy with a groan acknowledged her fate, and decided it -was meant by destiny, that she should stay at Mr. Andrews' till -everybody in the village was saturated with the intelligence. - -She had been away from her mother all day, and Ann had reported her as -was not feeling quite so well, so at half past three o'clock, she had -turned her back upon the desolation, and leaving the servants to do what -little they could or would, went back to sit with her mother for the -rest of the afternoon, which had turned out fine and sunny. - -Mrs. Varian was suffering quietly, as usual, but was very glad to have -her daughter for a little while. The room was quiet and cool, and in an -easy chair by the window, Missy found a little rest. She read aloud to -her mother for awhile; but there soon began to be distractions. - -"Mamma, here are the Wellses going in at our gate. I hope they'll enjoy -the sight of the battered steps and the trampled lawn." - -"It is but civil of them to come and leave a card, at all events." - -"Ah, and here goes somebody else. Who is it, with such a pretty pony -phaeton, and a puny little footman, and a pug dog? It must be the -Oldhams. I didn't know they had come up. Well, I hope Ann has on a -respectable cap, and that the bell wires are not broken, as it seems -probable all Yellowcoats will call to inquire for us to-day." - -"I am sure it is very kind of Yellowcoats. Why do you speak so, Missy? -You surely can't resent it." - -Missy bit her lips; she had a resentment that she had never let her -mother share. Yes, she did resent it. It was bitter to her to know that -they were all coming, and that every one would know where they had -found asylum, and that all the old story of last September would be -revived. She was quite correct in thinking that all Yellowcoats was on -its way there that afternoon. Ann must have had a lively time answering -the bell and the questions. - -It was now the third day since the fire. The second day had been a -stormy one, and the sunshine seemed to have come on purpose to -disseminate the gossip. Missy, from behind the blinds, watched the -carriages drive in. There were Oldhams, country Oldhams and city -Oldhams, a family far reaching and intricately entwined in Yellowcoats' -connections. It was not safe to say anything anti-Oldham to any one in -Yellowcoats, for they were related to everybody, gentle and simple, in -the place. There came the Roncevalles, who had two men on the box, and -were debonair and rich and easy-going. There were the Sombreros, in a -heavy, not recent carriage, driven by a man who did not even hold -himself straight, and who couldn't have been dragooned into a livery. -But the inmates of the carriage held themselves straight, and other -people had to walk straight before them. If the object of mankind is to -secure the respect of its fellows, they had attained that object. People -of manifold more pretension quailed before their silent disapprobation. -They "rode their sure and even trot, while now the world rode by, now -lagged behind." Missy felt a sharper pang of wonder what the Sombreros -had heard about her, than what the people with the two men on the box, -or the black ponies and the pug dog had heard; she felt that the -Sombreros would never change their minds, and minds that don't change -are to be held in awe. She saw them drive away with a heavier sense of -apprehension than she had felt before. But they did not turn and look -towards the Andrews' cottage, as the others did. Missy felt sure the two -men on the box of the Roncevalles' carriage nudged each other; the two -ladies in the carriage certainly did turn and look that way; very gently -and decorously, but still they turned. - -By and by a carriage coming out met a carriage driving in, directly -before the Andrews' house. They stopped. The ladies bent eagerly forward -and talked in low tones; more than one glance flashed towards the closed -blinds of the widower's house. Missy's cheeks were scarlet and her -breath came quick; but she was fascinated and could not look away. It -was gentle Mrs. Olor and her pretty young daughters--who could dread -anything from them? Stirring Mrs. Eve was just giving them the -information that she had received from the waitress at the Varians' -door. She was the kindest and busiest person in Yellowcoats, but she had -a sense of humor, and she also was very particular about her own -daughters, one of whom was with her in the carriage. Who could doubt -what view she took of Miss Rothermel's aspirations? Missy watched -breathlessly the faces; the mammas alone talked, the daughters listened, -with smiles and rather pursed-up mouths. Superior the whole party seemed -to feel themselves, as people always seem to feel when they have a -little story against their neighbors, not reflecting that their own turn -may come next. Missy had felt superior for twenty-seven years, though -she hadn't talked more gossip than most other well-disposed and -well-bred persons. Still, she had felt superior, and it was horrid to -be made to feel inferior, and she bit her lips, and angry tears came up -into her eyes. Her mother lay watching her silently on the bed. - -"Well, Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?" she said at -last, gently. - -Missy forced herself to speak indifferently, "Only the Olors and the -Eves. They have met just outside the gate, and are mincing us quite -fine, I should judge from their animated looks." - -"Well, I hope they haven't anything worse to say of us than that we've -had a fire, and that the place looks sadly out of trim." - -"Mamma," said Missy abruptly, as with wreathed smiles the friends parted -and the carriages drove away, "what do you say to a journey this summer? -I'm sadly cut up about this fire. I never shall have the heart to get -things in order before autumn; I'm tired of Yellowcoats for the first -time in my life, and--I want to go away." - -"Go away, Missy! How could we do that? I fear I am not strong enough; -and your Aunt Harriet--you know we resolved two years ago, we'd never -try it again. She is so hard to please, and you remember what a trial we -found the whole three months." - -"It would be less of a trial than staying here. I, for one, would be -glad to risk it. And as to you, I sometimes feel sure you need a change -more than anything." - -Mrs. Varian shook her head. "I need rest more than anything." - -"Invalids always feel that, and yet see what benefit they get from -journeys that they have dreaded." - -"Besides," said the mother rather hesitatingly "you know there is -always a chance of St. John's return." - -"I didn't know," said Missy, a little coldly. - -"You know as much as I do," returned her mother. "You saw his last -letter. He says all depends upon his being accepted. He may come back at -any time." - -"Oh, as to that," cried Missy, "I think there is no danger that he will -not be accepted. It would surprise me very much if he escaped. A man -with a handsome income is generally found to have a vocation." - -"You have been reading too much Browning and Balzac, I am afraid," said -her mother with a sigh. - -"I have been reading life, and hard, common sense," cried Missy. "I -ought to have been prepared to find we were all to sit meekly waiting at -home, while the saint of the family was on probation. It ought to be -honor enough. But I admit I would like to have a voice in my sacrifices, -and to make them self-denials." - -"It is new to me to imagine you finding your pleasure anywhere but at -home. Since you feel so about it, I am sure--" - -"Oh, don't say anything more about it," cried Missy, thoroughly -unhinged. "I can stay here, I suppose. I really am not quite new at -doing what I don't like, even if I am only secular." - -"You are tired, Missy. Now go and lie down, and don't think anything -more about this matter. When we are both fresher, we will talk it over, -and you shall decide what shall be done." - -At half-past five o'clock she got up, and dressed carefully for dinner, -bracing herself for the ordeal with much philosophy. At dinner, she -found her philosophy quite superfluous, for Mr. Andrews did not make -his appearance, and Gabby scarcely lifted her eyes from her plate. This -young person had been awake the night before, and an attentive listener -to the conversation between her father and Missy, and it had naturally -made a profound impression on her. It is difficult to say why Missy felt -annoyed that Mr. Andrews did not come to dinner. She ought to have felt -relieved; but on the contrary, she felt vexed. It is always disagreeable -not to act your part when you have rehearsed it, and feel well up in it. -But it was a great vexation to her to think that she was keeping him -from his own dinner-table by reason of that unpleasant speech of the -night before. She had only realized that he wasn't at breakfast at the -time, with a sense of relief. She now remembered it with a sensation of -chagrin. Also, she recalled his pallor and weariness of expression last -night, which in her misery about herself, she had forgotten. It was -possible he was really suffering to-day. It was only three days since he -had met with a serious accident, all in their service. - -"How is Mr. Andrews feeling to-day?" she asked of the waitress. - -"Not quite so well, Miss, I think." - -"Has he kept his room?" - -"Oh, no, Miss, but he doesn't seem to have much appetite, and I believe -the doctor told him he mustn't think of going to town for several days -yet. He had been telling the doctor he was going down, and would stay -away perhaps a week, and promised to keep very quiet there. But the -doctor wouldn't hear of it, and said the hot weather might come on -suddenly, and make him very sick, and besides, he wasn't fit to bear the -journey." - -Missy was quite chagrined by this information. Mr. Andrews had felt so -constrained and uncomfortable in his own house, he could not bear it any -longer. Or else he had so honorably desired to put her at her ease while -she had to stay, that he had wanted to go away. Either view of the case -was bad enough; but it was undeniably an awkward situation, and if he -persisted in keeping away from the table for another meal, she should -feel that it was unendurable, and they must go away, range or no range, -order or disorder. - -Jay followed her from the table, clinging to her skirts. She went -directly to her mother, where the child's prattle covered her -absent-minded silence. - -It was a lovely June evening, fresh after the rain of yesterday, and she -sat by the window watching the pink clouds fade into gray, and the -twilight make its way over the fields and roadside. Jay babbled his -innocent babble to inattentive ears; by and by he grew sleepy. Eliza -came, and he was sent away. - -It was about half-past eight, when the servant came up, and said that -there was a person below who wished to see Mrs. or Miss Varian. Missy -struck a match and looked at the card. It was the agent of the insurance -company, in which the house had been insured. - -"Why could he not come in the daytime! I absolutely can't talk business -to-night." - -The servant explained that he came up by the evening train, had been at -the house, and was to go away by an early train in the morning. - -There was no help for it; Missy dismissed the pink clouds and the soft -creeping twilight and her thoughts, and went down stairs to the parlor. -The room was lighted only by a lamp which stood on the table in the -middle of it, by which the agent sat. He was a trim, dapper, middle-aged -man, not at all aware that he was not a gentleman, and very sharp about -business matters, while he was affable and explanatory, as became a -business man dealing with a young lady. His manner annoyed Missy, who -would have got on much better if he had been simply business-like. She -knew he had the better of her in his knowledge of matters, and her -memory was very unusually faulty about the things she ought to have -remembered. The papers were all in her room at home, and for aught she -knew, had been lost or destroyed when that room was torn to pieces to -save it from the flames. She certainly had not been wise enough to think -of looking for them since the fire occurred. - -"You will have to come again," she said; "I really am not prepared -to-night to talk it over." - -He seemed disposed to take advantage of this, and rather pressed an -immediate decision on some question. - -It was not till this moment that Missy knew that Mr. Andrews was in the -room. He was lying on a sofa in a corner, and a screen stood before him, -shielding him from the light. - -"Mr. Andrews, I beg your pardon," she said, getting up. "I am afraid we -are disturbing you. I didn't know you were here. We will go into the -dining-room if this gentleman has anything more to say." - -"I don't think he has," said Mr. Andrews, raising himself a little on -his elbow. "Don't think of going to the dining-room, or of discussing -the matter further, for I am sure you are too tired to-night. Perhaps I -can attend to the matter for you." - -An inquiring look towards the agent had a very salutary effect upon him. -It was quite amazing to notice how his manner changed when he found he -had a man to deal with. Missy sat by humbled, while she listened to -their talk. - -Why couldn't she have been business-like? Why couldn't she have said -what Mr. Andrews was saying, without "losing her head," and getting -nervous? It was her affair, and she certainly ought to know more about -it than he did. - -When the man was fairly out of the door, she gave a sigh, and said: - -"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Andrews, for helping me out of it." - -"I think the man is rather a sharper, and I'm afraid you are not a -business woman, Miss Rothermel." - -"I am afraid not; and I always meant to be." - -Then there was a pause. Mr. Andrews laid his head back on the pillow of -the sofa, and seemed not to have anything more to say. Missy had a great -deal to say, but she didn't know where to begin. She was full of -contrition and purposes of amendment; but the situation was most -embarrassing, and Mr. Andrews was not inclined to help her. Time -pressed. It was insupportable to sit still by the lamp, and not say -anything. Mr. Andrews was lying down, too. What if any one should come -in, and find her sitting there, entertaining him? She wished for Aunt -Harriet--for any one; but she must say her say; and she rushed at it. - -"I am afraid," she said, in a voice that showed agitation, "I am afraid -you are not so well to-day, Mr. Andrews." - -"I have had an uncomfortable day; but I don't suppose I am materially -worse--at least the doctor doesn't tell me so." - -Then another pause. Certainly he did not mean to help her. - -"I am afraid," she said, getting up, and laying down upon the table the -paper-cutter that she had been turning and twisting in her fingers, "I -am afraid our being here makes you very uncomfortable. And it ought to -be just the other way. We are so much indebted to you! You have been so -good--and--and--" - -She made a step toward him, and standing behind the screen in front of -his sofa, which came up to her waist, leaned on it for a moment, looking -down--then said, "I don't know how to express it, exactly; I hope you'll -understand. I know I haven't behaved well about--about--things--but I -suppose I had some excuse. It is so hard to remember one's own -insignificance, and to think only about other people! I have thought of -no one's discomforts or miseries but my own. I haven't been nice at all; -I've been horrid. I never should have believed it of myself. At my age -it seems so paltry and undignified to be minding what people may say or -think, if only you know you're doing right. I have resolved I will never -let it come into my mind again, nor affect my conduct in any way. And I -hope you will excuse my rudeness, and the discomfort I have caused you, -and will let me make up for it in some way, while we stay with you." - -He lay looking at her as she stood behind the screen, leaning a little -toward him on her folded arms. The only light in the room was behind -her, shining through her fair, fine hair, now in a little curling -disorder; all her face was in shadow. It is possible she looked to the -lonely man almost a "blessed damosel," leaning to him out of Heaven. - -"You have made up for it," he said, "very fully. I hope we shall always -be friends, if you will let me." - -"It shan't be my fault if we are not," she said. Then, hurriedly saying -good-night, she went away. There was a clock in the hall, which struck -nine as she passed it. It had a peculiar tone, and she never could -forget it. It had been striking as she passed it on the gloomy morning -last summer, when she had hurried to that fearful death-bed. - -It gave her a pang to hear it now. It seemed sharply to accuse her of -something. It recalled to her all her prejudices, all her resolutions. -It brought to her mind his manner when she had told him of his wife's -death, his absence of feeling in all the days that followed. It revived -his banishing the mother's memory from the children's minds; his ready -purpose to send away her favorite Gabrielle. And then she thought of -what she had just been saying--of what he had just said, and in what an -earnest way! Her face burned at the recollection. - -"Am I never to have any peace in this tiresome matter," she said to -herself as she shut herself into her room. "I will not think of it any -more, while I am obliged to remain in this house. I will honestly do all -I can to make things comfortable; he has done enough to make that -proper. Afterwards I will keep my promise by being kind to the children, -and by really serving them when it is in my power. It does not involve -me in any intimacy with him. You can stand a person's friend, and not -see him once a year. I will never do anything to injure or annoy him. -That is being an honest friend, as we are bidden to be, even to our -enemies. I have put myself and my pride away. I will do all I can to -forward the comfort and pleasure of every one in the house, and there is -the end of it." - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -A MISOGYNIST. - - -Acting upon this wise resolution, Missy came down the next morning a -little late, to breakfast. She was not going to escape any one. She had -on a fresh cambric morning-dress, and some roses in her belt. The -breakfast-table looked quite populous when she entered, for Mr. Andrews -was at the foot of the table, and the two children on one side, and Miss -Varian on the other, in the seat that had been placed for Missy. Miss -Varian's coming had been rather a surprise to everyone, for she had been -nursing her neuralgia so assiduously, no one imagined it would go away -so soon. Mr. Andrews got up when Miss Rothermel came in, and Jay shouted -a welcome from out of his hominy plate. - -Aunt Harriet said, "Well, Missy, I suppose you didn't expect to see me." - -"You've got Missy's place," said Jay, without ceremony. - -"Oh, no matter," cried Missy, turning a little pale, for she foresaw -that her fate would be to sit at the head of the table and pour out the -tea. Nobody sat there ordinarily, and the waitress poured out the tea. -But the table was not very large, and Aunt Harriet had spread out -herself, and her strawberries, and her glass of water, and her cup of -coffee, and her little bouquet of flowers, over so much of the side on -which she sat, that it would have caused quite a disturbance to have -made a place for Missy there. - -"Where will you sit, Miss Rothermel?" asked the waitress, with her hand -on the chair, looking perplexed, and glancing from the encumbered -neighborhood of Miss Varian, to the freer region behind the urn and -tea-cups. - -"Oh, anywhere, it makes no difference," said Missy, determined not to -fail the first time she was put to the test. "Here, if it is more -convenient." - -The servant placed the chair at the head of the table, which Missy -promptly took. Mr. Andrews, who had been standing with rather an anxious -face, as if he saw his guest's struggle, sat down with a relieved -expression. - -"You are just in time to reconstruct my coffee," said Miss Varian. -"Among her other good qualities, Mr. Andrews, your waitress does not -number making good coffee. Mine is tepid, and the cream was put in last, -I am sure. You must let Missy make you a cup; I am afraid you have -forgotten what good coffee is, if you have been drinking this all -winter." - -Missy bit her lip, and then shrugged her shoulder, and gave Mr. Andrews -a comical glance, as the only way of getting over her aunt's rudeness. -She also gave the servant a smile, and a little shake of the head, as -she handed the hot cup of coffee to her. The woman was very red and -angry, but this mollified her. Miss Varian had the most artless way of -insulting servants. Nothing but the general understanding, that it was -her way, and the certainty that she would give them a good deal of money -at Christmas, kept the servants at home respectful to her. - -"Yes, Missy does understand putting a cup of coffee together, even when -it's only tolerable to begin with," she said, tasting it with -satisfaction. "I think, Missy, if you showed the cook your way of making -it, to-morrow morning, Mr. Andrews would bless you every day of his -life." - -"Why, my dear aunt, the coffee is excellent," cried Missy, "I don't know -what you are thinking of. Next you'll be criticising these muffins, -which are perfect. Shall I give you one?" Soon after this, the servant -left the room, ostensibly to get some hot muffins, but really to pour -out her wrath to the cook. While she was gone, Missy perceived that Mr. -Andrews had neither tea nor coffee, and was eating very little -breakfast. "Are you not going to have coffee?" she said. - -"If you will give me some, I think I should like to judge whether Miss -Varian is right." So Missy made him a cup of coffee, very hot and nice, -and as there was no waitress in the room, got up and carried it to him -herself, before he knew what she was doing. - -"I beg you'll say it's good," she said. "Now, Jay," as she passed him, -"you surely _have_ had hominy enough. Don't you want some strawberries." -So she got him a plate from the side-board, and gave him some -strawberries, and a kiss, and put the muffins within Gabby's reach -before she sat down. Mr. Andrews' anxiety quite melted away, and he -began to enjoy his breakfast. - -"While you are up, Missy," said Miss Varian, just after she sat down, -"give me a glass of water." - -Missy laughed, and so did Jay and even Gabrielle, who looked alarmed as -soon as she had done it. Could a person be sent to boarding-school for -laughing in the wrong place, she wondered. Missy gave her aunt the glass -of water, and arranged things so that she could find them near her -plate. And so, the breakfast that had begun so threateningly, ended -quite peacefully. The morning was warm, but lovely. - -"I think, if you will take me to the piazza, I will sit there awhile, -Missy, but you will have to get me my shawl and hat, or go off on a -cruise to find Goneril, who is never where she ought to be." - -"Oh, we'll indulge Goneril with a little breakfast to put her in a good -humor for the day, and I'll find the shawl and hat," said Missy, taking -her aunt's hand to lead her from the room. - -Jay came to make her give him her other hand, and Gabby, allured by the -sight of a new bauble on Miss Varian's watch-chain, followed them -closely. Miss Varian was established on the front piazza, sheltered from -the sun and wind (and conspicuous to the passers-by), Gabby was nailed -to her side in fascinated contemplation of the trinket, which, it was -quite probable, the capricious lady would end by giving her, and Missy -was free to go to her mother for a little while. In half an hour she -came down ready to go to her work in the dismantled house. She went into -the parlor to find her parasol, and there was Mr. Andrews with letters -and papers before him, trying painfully to write with his stiff left -hand. "Oh, you must let me do that for you," cried Missy, pulling off -her gloves. "If they are business letters, that is," with a little -hesitation, for she caught sight of a woman's handwriting, among the -letters before him. - -"The business ones are the pressing ones. It would be a great kindness, -if you could. But you are needed at the house, perhaps." - -"I can write for half an hour or so. I have sent the women over, with -their work laid out for them for all the morning. I am quite used to -this. I write Aunt Harriet's letters every evening, till I go almost to -sleep." - -"I shall not let you go to sleep," said Mr. Andrews, "over mine." So -Missy wrote, and Mr. Andrews dictated, for half an hour at least. "That -is all that is needed now; I am very much obliged to you." - -"There are a good many more before you yet," she said, glancing at the -heap. - -"They will do as well another time. Perhaps, if anything comes to-day -that has to be attended to, you will be kind enough to write me a few -lines to-night." - -"Yes, of course; and if you want anything for the afternoon mail, don't -fail to send over for me." Then she went away, feeling very virtuous. - -In the afternoon, as she came down the steps to go back to see if her -mother wanted her, she saw Mr. Andrews just entering at the gate. It was -the first time that he had been out, and he showed his four days' -confinement to the house. As she met him, he said, with a little -hesitation, "I have come to see if you won't go out for a little drive -with us this afternoon. It is too fine a day to be shut up in the -house." - -Her heart sank. A drive _en famille_ with the Andrews', in the teeth of -all that had happened in the last few days! How could she brave it? Her -color changed a little and perhaps he saw it. - -"Don't go if you don't fancy it," he said. - -"Oh, it's just the afternoon for a drive. But I was going back to sit -with mamma, who has been alone all day." - -"I sent up to Mrs. Varian's room to see if there were any chance that -she would go with us, and Goneril came creeping out on tiptoe to say she -had just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed." - -The last hope was extinguished; she made just one more cowardly attempt. -"But you," she said, "are you well enough? Isn't it rather against the -doctor's orders?" - -"No, he gave me permission himself this morning, finding me very much -improved." - -Then Missy said to herself, "I should think the man could see--" And -aloud she said, "Oh, there is nothing in the way. I'll go to the house -for my gloves and vail." - -When she came back the open wagon stood before the gate of the cottage. -Jay was already in it, brandishing the whip and shouting, much to -Michael's displeasure, who stood by the horses' heads. Mr. Andrews was -coming from the house. Gabby stood behind a post of the piazza, showing -a face lead-color with sullenness and disappointment. She had no hat on, -and was evidently not to be of the party. - -"Isn't Gabby going?" said Missy to Jay. - -"No," cried Jay, in selfish satisfaction, "Papa says there isn't room." - -"Poor Gabby! why, that won't do," she said, going to meet Mr. Andrews in -the path. "Won't you take Gabrielle?" she said. "There is plenty of room -for the two children with me on the back seat." - -Miss Rothermel enjoyed being magnanimous so much, Mr. Andrews hadn't the -heart to refuse her. - -"Which way are we going?" he asked, as Michael drove slowly. Jay -clamored for a drive, which took them through the village. Miss -Rothermel, of course, would give no vote. Gabrielle, when questioned, -agreed with Jay. Mr. Andrews admitted it was a pretty drive. "The -greatest good of the greatest number," thought Missy, while Michael -drove that way. - -They took the road through the village, where the men sat thick on the -store steps, and where the young village maidens were taking their -afternoon saunter. They met the Sombreros, they met the Oldhams and the -Olors--whom did they not meet, enjoying or enduring their afternoon -drive? Mr. Andrews had his arm in an unnecessarily conspicuous sling. It -was malicious of Goneril to put on that glaring great white silk -handkerchief. He was labeled hero, and people could not help looking. -Missy did not blame them, but it was horrid all the same. However, when -they were out of the village, and there were comparatively few people to -meet, the influence of the charming day and the absence of charred -remains and disordered rooms began to brighten her, and she almost liked -it. They drove along a road by the bay. The tide was high, and was -breaking with a contented little purring sound against the pebbles; -little boats bent idly with the incoming tide and pulled lazily at -their anchors. The bay was as blue as the sky; some white sails drifted -on it, for scenic effect, no doubt, for what else? for there was no -wind, but only a fresh cool air that came in puffs and ripples across -the water. Beside them, on the other side of the road, were green and -flowering banks, where Jay saw wild roses and anemones and little -nameless and beloved wild flowers. There was privet budding and hawthorn -fading, and barberry and catbrier and wild grape, in fresh June -coloring. Little dust came here in this narrow road, and with this -constant dampness from the bay. Nobody pulled down the vines, and they -hung in undisturbed festoons from the cedars and the stones. - -"I like this," said Jay, with a sort of sigh, after a long moment of -silence. - -"So do I," said Missy, giving him a kiss. - -The sun was behind the cedar and barberry and catbrier banks. They went -as far down the Neck as there was a road to go, and then turned back, -"the gait they cam' again." The children were exceptionally good, and no -one talked much. It was not the sort of hour when one talks much, good -or bad, or thinks much, either. Enough bliss it was to be alive, - - "But to be young was very heaven." - -Jay liked it, and Missy liked it too, though she was twenty-eight. And -Mr. Andrews, possibly, though he did not say anything about it. - -When they came up the steep little hill by the old mill, Jay felt the -spell of the water and the wildflowers broken, and began to clamor to -be taken over on the front seat between papa and Michael. He was cold, -he said, and he wanted to see the horses, and he didn't want to stay -where he was, in point of fact. It was rather a serious thing to -contradict Jay, and to carry him howling through the village, like a -band to call attention to the arrival of a circus. It was well to afford -entertainment to one's neighbors, but Missy did not think it necessary -to court occasions of sacrifice, so, with her pleasure much diminished, -they stopped, while Mr. Andrews managed to put out his one stiff hand, -and then she proceeded to push the hopeful boy over the back of the -seat, and establish him between his father and the coachman. - -"I must say, Jay, you are a spoiled child," she exclaimed. - -"That's so!" cried Jay, complacently, making a lunge towards the whip. - -"If you say 'that's so' again, I shall be angry with you," said Missy. -"Mr. Andrews, _won't_ you try to stop the children from talking this -vulgar slang. Jolly, coquettish, bizarre slang I don't mind, once in a -very great while, from children, but this sort of kitchen and village -boy vulgarity they never will get over, if they keep it up much longer." - -"I have done my best," said Mr. Andrews. - -"Well, I hope you'll excuse me for saying I don't think you have covered -yourself with glory." - -"Jay, we're a bad lot; we must reform at once," said the father, putting -his stiff arm around his boy, and giving him a hug. "Miss Rothermel will -give us up if we don't." - -"That's so!" cried Jay, boisterously, kicking the shawl off his legs, -and nearly tumbling off the seat in his enthusiasm. - -"I _have_ given you up," said Missy. "Don't put yourselves to the -trouble of reforming on my account." - -Nothing seemed to disturb the tranquillity of Mr. Andrews this evening. -He looked around and saw Missy's face darken as they found themselves -meeting carriages arriving from the cars, but it did not seem to depress -him; on the contrary, he seemed quietly amused. - -"The cars are three-quarters of an hour late!" exclaimed Missy, -unguardedly; "I thought we should have escaped them." - -"There is no dust to-night," said Mr. Andrews; "so they don't do us any -harm." - -"No, of course not," murmured Missy, bowing stiffly to Mrs. Eve and her -placid-looking son, who swept past them as if they were fugitives from -justice. - - "There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea!" - -It was amazing why every one who came from the cars by the late train -drove as if pursued by fate. - -When they reached home, there was another trial awaiting Missy. A -long-legged, good-looking man was sitting on the piazza, with his feet -higher than his head, and a meerschaum in his mouth. He came forward -briskly to meet the arrival and welcome his host; but he was aghast to -find a well-dressed young lady getting out of the carriage, and could -scarcely command words to explain that he had only that day heard of his -friend's accident, and had hurried up, by the just-arrived train, to -learn its extent. He was evidently one of Mr. Andrews' bachelor -friends--a woman-hater, like himself; and his thorough chagrin at seeing -Miss Rothermel, after an introduction, go into the house, would have -been amusing to any one less intimately connected with the surprise. -Just as Missy--followed closely by the children, and, at a little -distance, by the two gentlemen--was entering the house, a second female -cavalcade, headed by Miss Varian, attended by two maids bearing -bathing-clothes and towels, came from the direction of the water, and -met them upon the piazza. - -"Is that you, Missy?" said her aunt; "I have been trying my first bath -of the season; and I assure you it was cold." As if this were not enough -to try the nerves of the poor misogynist, Mrs. Varian at this moment -descended the stairs, accompanied by Anne with her shawl and book. - -"I thought I would give you a surprise, Missy," she said, with her sweet -smile, "and be down-stairs to meet you." - -Missy kissed her, and tried to look as if it were an agreeable surprise. -The cup of the guest's amazement was now apparently full. Here were six -strange women gathered on his friend's threshold to meet him, all -evidently at home. Had Mr. Andrews' accident affected his reason, and -had he begun a collection of these specimens, that had lately been his -abhorrence? What had occurred, to turn this peaceful abode of meerschaum -and Bourbon into a clear-starched and be-ribboned country house, where -shooting-coats and colored shirts were out of place? What should he do -about his boots? Was there a train to town to-night? or ought he to -stay, and look after poor Andrews? Wasn't it his duty to telegraph to -some one in town at once for medical advice? He had always heard that -people turned against their friends when the brain was involved; and, -most likely, this was a case in point, and Andrews had turned toward his -enemies, as well. - -All these thoughts rushed through his mind (and it wasn't a mind that -could bear rushes through it, without showing its disturbance), while -Mr. Andrews, with unusual urbanity, was bowing to Mrs. Varian, and -making her welcome. It was the first time she had been down-stairs since -she had been in the house, and it seemed to give him a great deal of -pleasure. She always called out in him, as in every man who met her, the -highest degree of chivalry that was in him. - -But the guest did not look at her; he only looked at his friend, -transformed into a ladies' man, a Chesterfield--everything that he -wasn't before. He staggered in his gait as he looked on, and took hold -of the door-post for support. Missy was glad Mr. Andrews did not observe -his agitation; but none of it escaped her, and she longed to give a -chance for explanation. - -"What can he think of us?" she reflected miserably. But no moment for -explanation arrived. The dinner-bell rang, with sharp promptness, as -they stood in the doorway. It was Melinda's night out, and no grass was -allowed to grow under the family's feet when that night came round. The -children were hungry too, and rushed ahead into the dining-room; so -nothing remained for Mr. Andrews, but to lay down his hat, give his arm -to Mrs. Varian and follow them in. Miss Varian exclaimed she wasn't -ready for dinner, just coming from the bath, but Missy dreaded her -disturbing them by coming in later, and begged her to come at once. She -was hungry, and consented. The guest, whose name seemed to be McKenzie, -had nothing to do but to follow. There were places enough arranged at -the table, but by a villainous, vicious contrivance of fate, every one -got a seat before Missy, who had to place her aunt at table, and she was -left staring at her enthronement at the head. "I don't think I'd better -sit here," she faltered rather low to Mr. McKenzie, who was stranded -beside her, "I think there may be something to carve, and I'm not much -at that." - -"Oh, by no means," he exclaimed, hurriedly, "I couldn't think of -it--that is--I am sure you belong there--I--I--you--that is--" - -"Oh, very well," said Missy, seeing that Mr. Andrews was looking rather -anxiously in their direction, and sank into her seat. - -"I want to sit next to Missy," cried Jay. "Even if she was cross to me, -I love her all the same, don't you, papa?" - -"All the same," said Mr. Andrews, smiling, and not looking disconcerted, -as he took the stopper out of the decanter by him. Missy was very angry -for a moment. Why had he not been disconcerted, as she most unhappily -was? But in a few moments she thought better of it, and was ashamed of -herself. There was poor mamma, who had made such an effort to come down; -she must have a cheerful hour at all events. And the miserable man next -her must be put at ease. The room was rather warm, and his heat -increased his agitation. His soup almost choked him, and Missy at one -time thought she should have to introduce him to his napkin, he seemed -too ill at ease to find it, though it was beside his plate. She put the -salt within his reach, but he didn't see it, and a water bottle, but he -was even beyond that. So she filled his glass and pushed it towards him. -He saw it at last, and drank it off at one gulp. - -"Mr. Andrews," said Missy, "can we have the door a little open? It is -rather warm at this end of the room." - -"Certainly, Miss Rothermel," exclaimed Mr. Andrews, getting up to open -it. "Why didn't you speak before?" - -"Heavens! Missy, what are you thinking about! The door open on my back. -I should be ill with neuralgia in half an hour. Mr. Andrews, I beg -you'll have a little mercy on us. Missy will kill off all the household -if you let her have her way about ventilation." - -"Oh! _n'importe_," cried Missy, as Mr. Andrews stood irresolute and -embarrassed. "Mr. McKenzie and I may die of asphyxia, but that would be -better than Aunt Harriet's getting neuralgia. Pray sit down, Mr. -Andrews, I really am used to it." - -"And I," said Miss Varian, going on uninterruptedly with her dinner, "am -quite familiar with these cases of asphyxia. Pray don't be disturbed, -Mr. Andrews. Miss Rothermel has them two or three times a week." - -It was so ludicrous, the uninterrupted calm of Miss Varian, who knew she -was going to have her own way, and the heat and agitation of the others; -that, as Mr. Andrews reluctantly took his seat, they all laughed. - -"It is quite true," said Mrs. Varian, wishing to reconcile him. "You -know, Missy, you are very imprudent. I believe your aunt has saved you -from a great many colds." - -"From an early grave, no doubt," said Missy, fanning herself, and giving -Mr. McKenzie another glass of water, while he was looking amazed from -Mrs. Varian to her sister-in-law. He was still quite incapable of -helping himself. - -"If he has apoplexy, it will be on my conscience," thought Missy. So, -after the discussion, she signalled the waitress to open a window near. -This was quietly done, and Miss Varian never knew it, not being as -sensitively organized as she thought she was. In the meanwhile, -something had come on the table which had to be carved, and it had been -put before Mr. Andrews. - -"This is a hard case," said the host, "but a man with 'never a hand' -can't carve. McKenzie, I believe I must put it upon you." - -This was exactly the last straw. The wretched man actually gasped. He -writhed, he tried to speak. - -"Can't Melinda?" said Missy, quite forgetting that it wasn't her place -to make suggestions. She felt sure Mr. Andrews had not seen the purple -shade of Mr. McKenzie's complexion. - -"Melinda has no gift," said Mr. Andrews. "I have tried her more than -once, but she can't carve." - -"Then let me try," cried Missy, springing up. "You'll see _I_ have a -gift." - -"Missy!" murmured her mother, deprecatingly, at this boldness. She -evidently had not seen the state the guest was in. - -"Mamma," cried Missy, "you know I've had to carve, and make tea, and do -a hundred things that didn't belong to me, ever since I was twelve years -old, and now you blame me for wanting to show off my accomplishments, -when I'm quite of a proper age to display them. I've been imposed on by -the family all my life, and now--the ingratitude of republics." - -As Missy finished her speech, she stood by Mr. Andrews, who had -reluctantly got up, and was glancing rather sternly at his friend. - -But the friend did not look at him, he was gazing bewildered at Missy. -The familiarity and complete at-home-ness of the whole party made him -doubt his senses. It was bad enough to see the women so at ease, though -he could believe anything of them. But Andrews evidently liked it, and -was pleased with all the liberties they took. It was impossible to -account for the state of things by any theory but that of brain -disorder. How he got through the rest of the dinner, Missy never quite -knew. He had no one to pour out glasses of water for him, and put the -wine within reach, for she quite washed her hands of him and sent -Gabrielle to take her place, while Mr. Andrews took Gabrielle's; and -Missy remained to carve. When they came out from the dinner-table, Mrs. -Varian went up stairs, and Missy went into the parlor to gather up some -of her aunt's things, of which there were always plenty to gather up. -The two gentlemen went on the piazza. She heard them talking as they sat -down beside the window, and prepared to smoke. - -"I must say, Andrews--" - -"Yes." - -"That--well. I was a little taken aback to find -things--so--a--so--well--so altered with you." - -He was beginning to breathe freer and to gain courage, now the -atmosphere was clear of women. - -"I don't quite understand," returned his friend. "You mean I'm looking -badly? You might have thought so a day or two ago, but I'm quite myself -to-day, thank heaven." - -It seemed to Mr. McKenzie that that was just who he wasn't, but he only -smiled derisively, and said, "No; I didn't mean that. I don't think you -looking much amiss. On the contrary, you seem uncommonly jolly." - -"Jolly!" - -"Well for you--that is. Look here, Andrews, if there's a train back to -town to-night, I guess I'll take it. I'm not a lady's man, you know. You -see I didn't have any idea of what you expected of your friends. I'm not -prepared." - -"Prepared, for what? We didn't have a dinner-party, did we? I hope you -don't mind meeting these neighbors of mine, who have been burned out of -their own house, and have taken shelter for a few nights in mine." - -"Neighbors," repeated the guest, who was a very good fellow, but not the -quickest in the world. - -"Why, yes--from the house next door, where the fire was. You knew there -had been a fire, I take it, since you had heard about my accident." - -"Yes." - -"Well, those ladies, as I said, were obliged to leave their own house in -flames, and I brought them in here." - -"Oh!" - -"They seem to be very much obliged to me for what they think I did for -them on that occasion, and we get on very well together." - -There was a pause, during which Mr. Andrews lighted his cigar, and Mr. -McKenzie appeared to be digesting the intelligence. - -"All the same, it seems a little queer," he said, after a good deal of -deliberation. - -"Queer? I must say I don't see it." - -"Well, considering how you feel about such things, I mean. I don't -suppose there's any real objection, if anybody likes it. There are -enough of 'em to make it proper, I've no doubt." - -"O yes, I don't think there's anything improper; you needn't be uneasy, -in the least, McKenzie." - -There were a good many puffs before the new-comer spoke. He was -evidently thinking deeply. - -"I'm not uneasy about it, but I suppose you know what people will be -saying. I know better, of course; but they'll say it, all the same." - -"Come, now, McKenzie, who cares for what they say? When you get a little -older you won't mind, you know." - -This was a club joke, for McKenzie wasn't very young. He had a way of -turning red, however, very youthfully, and did care what people said -about him, if it had anything to do with the sex opposed to his. - -"Ah, bah! that's all nonsense. You'll care, I guess, as much as anybody, -when you find what everybody, these ladies here into the bargain, expect -of you." - -"That's your opinion, is it? Well, come now, I'll set you at rest. These -ladies are remarkably sensible. The youngest of them, who is the only -one you'd be likely to want me to marry, has a great contempt for me; -thinks I'm a brute, and all that. She's fond of the children, and is -only civil to me because I happen to be their father and her host." - -"Ah, bah!" cried McKenzie, with infinite contempt. - -"It's the truth, McKenzie. And I'll tell you something more; she's a -spit-fire, and I've been so afraid of her I haven't been near the house -all winter." - -"You've made up for it this summer, then. No, Andrews, don't you tell me -any such stuff. I'm not so young as _that_, you know." - -Andrews laughed a little comfortably, as he smoked. "Well, there's no -use in talking, then. But it's a hard case. You'd better not let her -know your suspicions." - -"Let her know! Heaven forbid! No, I don't think there's any danger." - -"McKenzie, upon my word, I believe you're afraid of her too." - -"Not in just the way you are." - -"She's so little, she couldn't hurt you." - -"Not just the way she's hurt you." - -"You don't believe me yet. Well, now, let me tell you seriously. This -young lady is not the marrying kind; she is too sensible by half. I -wouldn't ask her for the world. And you know--well, you know I'm not -likely to try it again very soon. We won't talk any more about this; but -you may make your mind easy on the subject." - -Missy heard as far as this; it wasn't strictly honorable, but she did. -She had been sitting in a chair by the window, the easier to pick up a -lot of chessmen, which were scattered on the window sill and under it. -She had her lap full of the rattling things, when she became interested -in the conversation on the piazza. She could not move for some seconds, -being fascinated by the sound of her own name. Then, when she wanted to -go, she was terrified by the fear of being discovered; the chessmen made -such a rattling if she moved an inch; she felt it certain that Mr. -Andrews would start and come to the window and look in to see who was -eavesdropping, if he heard a sound. He would be sure to think it was -Gabrielle, till he found it was the virtuous Missy. How she trembled. -How angry she was, and how ashamed. But after this last pleasant -declaration she started up, chessmen or no chessmen, and darted out of -the room. Mr. Andrews did hear a noise, and did look in, and did think -it was Gabrielle; but he could not see who it was that fled; and though -Missy heard him sternly calling the little girl in the hall, she was not -virtuous enough to go out and tell him, over the balusters, who had -overheard his flattering remarks. This omission would probably have -rankled in her conscience if she had not seen Gabrielle, from the -window, come in at the front gate with Jay at the same moment. So the -father must be assured that the children were neither of them the -offenders. He could think what he pleased of the servants, that was no -matter of hers. - -She was too angry to go down-stairs again. She would have found it -difficult to say why she was so angry. She knew she was sensible, she -knew she was a spit-fire; she knew Mr. Andrews did not mean to ask her -to marry him. All this was no news; he had a right to say what he had -said, to an intimate friend. She could not expect to be considered -sacred. Why shouldn't Mr Andrews talk about her to his friend? He had -not been absolutely disrespectful; he had only mentioned facts--a little -jocosely to be sure; and a woman hates to be spoken jocosely of between -two men, even if admiringly. And Missy hated to be spoken of, at all. -She felt that she was sacred, though she knew she hadn't any right to -feel so. Poor thin-skinned Missy; it was so hard for her to keep from -being hurt; everything hurt her, she was so egotistical. - -In the morning it was a joyful sound to her to hear Michael driving to -the door for the early train; it was comforting to see the guest drive -away alone, and to know that further confidences were over between them -for the present. Friends! Imagine calling such a creature your friend, -thought Missy, turning away from the window. - -It would have been a blessing if he had stayed away. It is difficult -even for a humble-minded young woman to be amiable and easy with a -person who has called her a spit-fire; it was almost impossible for -Missy. Going down to breakfast was like facing a battery; she went to -the door two or three times before she had the resolution to open it, -and feel herself launched upon the day's embarrassments. Once at table, -Mr. Andrews was so commonplace and unconscious, she felt herself -strengthened by his weakness. It was a great advantage to know what he -did not know. She knew exactly what he thought of her; he did not know -that she knew this, nor did he know what she thought of him; Heaven -forbid! So she could hold these two advantages in her hand and use them. -The result was that she was a little shy and a little silent, and -weighed her words very carefully, for a day or two. But bah! when did -ever a woman made as Missy was, do anything unnatural to her for longer -than a day or two. It was quite in character for her to lay out new -parts to act, but equally in character for her to throw them aside -impatiently, and fall back into her standard _rôle_. She not -unfrequently declared to herself, I will be this, I will be that, but -she always ended by being Missy. So that it was not surprising that when -at last the house was ready for its occupants, and they moved bag and -baggage out of the Andrews' cottage, the young lady was as unaffectedly -herself as if Mr. McKenzie had not drawn that unhappy statement from his -friend. Not that she had forgotten it, exactly. But she had let it drop -into that crucible of injuries and misconceptions, an egotistical mind, -and it was melted up into something that hurt no longer; in fact, even -gave a little pleasure. She had been so natural and so pleasant, that -the house seemed dreary to all the family but Gabby, when she was gone. -She also missed the excitement herself, and it seemed rather tame the -next morning to breakfast with Aunt Harriet alone. The tented field -unfits one for the pastoral life; she found herself bored by the -security and stupidity of the day on which she was entering. But that -did not last long. She was in an hour or so, too busy to be bored. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -ALPHONSINE. - - -For the second day, the only visitors from the cottage were Jay and -Eliza. Gabby only looked askance at the house, from over the arbor vitæ -hedge; it was a foregone conclusion they would not be troubled much by -her. Mr. Andrews had now begun his daily journeys to town. Though still -obliged to wear his arm in a sling, he was quite able to go to business. -No doubt he had there some clerk who could write letters for him as well -as Missy, though it is just possible he found it more amusing to have -her do it. - -June was now in full reign. If Yellowcoats were not perfect to the -senses now, it never would be. The days were so long, the nights so soft -and moonlit, the air, night and day, so full of fragrance. The ladies -sat late on the lawn, by the beach gate. Even Mrs. Varian had ventured -to come down, leaning on her daughter's arm, and sit, carefully wrapped, -and with a rug spread over the grass, to watch the beauty of the sunset. -The second evening after their exodus from his roof, Mr. Andrews found -them so sitting, as he strolled down to the beach after dinner. The -dinner had been good, the wine had been good, his cigar was good; but -there was an indefinite something wanted, a flavor of companionship and -human interest. He looked longingly over the hedge; he wondered if Miss -Rothermel would remember how angry she had been, when Miss Varian told -him, it was one of his duties to his neighbor, to come and smoke an -after-dinner cigar on the lawn. He was quite interested in this -speculation--how good was Miss Rothermel's memory? Sometimes he thought -it very strong, sometimes he wondered at its non-existence. As he never -forgot anything himself, and generally did what he meant to do, Missy -was naturally a puzzle to him. She evidently had forgotten about the -observation of Miss Varian, for she looked up with a very pleasant -smile, when the grating of the beach gate on its hinges, caused her to -turn her head. She pulled forward upon the rug a chair which had been -standing beside her with books and a shawl upon it. These she put on the -bench at her feet, and Mr. Andrews took the chair. - -"You are sitting with your back to the sunset," she said, after the -subsiding of the froth of welcoming talk among the little party. - -"Well, so are you," he said. - -"But I have a reason, and you haven't." - -"No reason, except that you put my chair just where it is, and I didn't -dare to move it." - -Missy frowned; it reminded her that she had heard it stated by this -gentleman, that he was afraid of her. - -"A plague upon it, what have I said now," he thought. - -"I am watching that boat," went on Miss Rothermel, letting drop his -remark about the chair, as if it had not been worth answering. "Do you -see how she is shilly-shallying there in the mouth of the harbor? There -is a good breeze to bring her in, and she will lose it, if she doesn't -look out. A little while ago she ran in--crept along the Neck a way, -then stood out again, and now, nobody can guess what she means to do, -except that she evidently doesn't want to go away. I have been watching -her since five o'clock." - -"Whose boat is it?" asked Mr. Andrews. "Does she belong about here?" - -"No, I am sure not; I think I know all the boats that belong in the -harbor, and she has an odd, unfamiliar look." - -"Let's have a look at her through my glass," said Mr. Andrews; and he -got up and went back to his boat-house, returning with a telescope. -"This will show us the whites of our enemy's eyes," he said, adjusting -it on its stand, by the beach gate. Missy got up eagerly, and went up to -it. It was some moments before she got it fitted to her eye, and then a -moment more before she found her craft. - -"Ah! here she is," she cried. "It's a capital glass. It's almost like -boarding her; it really is uncanny. There is a woman on board, and two -men; and see--they have a glass! And--well, I could affirm they are -looking at us. See, see, Mr. Andrews! Oh, what a funny effect! It is as -if we were staring at each other across a parquet." - -"Well," said Mr. Andrews, taking her place at the glass, "it is as if -the opposite box didn't like being stared at, and were pulling down -their curtains, and putting their fans before their faces. Upon my word, -they have gone about, and are getting out of reach of our glass, just as -fast as they can." - -All the party were now as much interested as Missy had been. Miss Varian -clamored to be told exactly what course the little vessel took; Goneril, -who happened to be behind her chair, had some unnecessary comment to -offer. Mrs. Varian even watched her breathlessly. - -"It is very odd," said Missy; "from the moment we put up the glass, they -made off. Look! they are half way across to Cooper's Bluff. In five -minutes they will be out of sight." - -It was quite true. In less than five minutes the little sail had shot -out of range of the glasses and eyes upon the Varian lawn, and all that -could follow it was very vague conjecture. It occupied the thoughts of -the little party till the sunset took its place, and then, the -apprehension of dew and dampness for Mrs. Varian, and then the moving up -to the house. Mr. Andrews carried some shawls and a book or two, and -stopped at the door of the summer parlor, as the others went in. He -consented, not reluctantly by any means, to go in with them. - -"For I assure you," he said, as he entered, "I find it quite dismal at -home since you all went away." - -Miss Varian seemed to take this as a personal tribute, and made her -thanks. "I had supposed," she added, "that Jay was the only one who felt -it very much; but I'm glad to know you shared his amiable sentiments." - -"By the way, where is he to-night?" asked Missy, putting a shade on the -lamp. - -"The children were bribed to go to bed very early to-night. Eliza asked -permission to go home this evening, and stay till morning; and so, I -suppose, they were persuaded to be sleepy early to suit her." - -Late that evening, as Missy looked out, before shutting her window for -the night, she thought again of the little vessel that had excited her -curiosity. She rather wondered that she had bestowed so much -speculation upon it; but again, when she awoke in the night, she found -herself thinking of it, and wondering how there happened to be a woman -in the party. Oystermen and fishermen do not burden themselves with -women when they go out into the Sound; and this little vessel had not -the look of a pleasure boat. She had rather a restless night, waking -again and again; she heard all sorts of sounds. Once the dog at the barn -began to bark, but stopped shortly after one sharp snarl. At another -time, she was so sure she heard a noise upon the beach, that she got up -and opened the window and looked out. The night was dark--no moon, and -but faint light of stars. A light fog had gathered over the water. She -listened long; at one moment she was certain she heard the voice of a -child, crying; but it was only once, and for the space of a moment. And -then all was silent. The wind among the trees, and the washing of the -tide upon the shore she still could hear, but could hear nothing else. -She went back to bed, feeling ashamed of herself. It was like Aunt -Harriet, who heard robbers and assassins all night long, and called up -Goneril to listen, whenever a bough swayed against a neighboring bough, -or a nut dropped from a tree. - -"At any rate, I won't tell of it at breakfast," thought the young lady, -determinately, putting her face down on her pillow. By and by she -started up, not having been able to soothe herself, and get asleep. That -was not imagination, whatever the child's cry and the dog's bark had -been. There was a sound of oars, growing gradually fainter as she -listened. Well, why shouldn't there be? Men often had to go off to -their sloops, to be ready for an early start when the wind served; maybe -it was almost daybreak. But no, as she reasoned, the clock struck two. -On such a dark night, it _was_ unusual, at such an hour as this, for any -one to be rowing out from shore. If there had been a man in the house, -she would have risked ridicule, and roused him to go out and see that -all was right. But the men slept at the stable--there was absurdity, and -a little impropriety, in her going out alone at such an hour to call the -men. It would rouse Mrs. Varian, no doubt, and give her a sleepless -night. And as for Miss Varian, it would furnish her a weapon which would -never wear out, if, as was probable, nothing should be found out of -order about the place, or on the beach. No one likes to be laughed at; -no one less than Miss Rothermel. She shut the window again, and -resolutely lay down to sleep. But sleep refused to come. It is -impossible to say what she feared; but she seemed to have entered into a -cloud of apprehension, vague as it was bewildering. It was useless to -reason with herself, she was simply frightened, and she should never -dare to scorn Aunt Harriet again. Was this the way the poor woman felt -every night after the household were all at rest? Well, it was very -unpleasant, and she wasn't to be blamed for waking Goneril; if Missy -hadn't been ashamed, she'd have waked somebody. - -It was not till dawn fairly came that she was able to go to sleep. From -this sleep she was confusedly wakened by a hurried knock at her door. -The sun was streaming into the room. She felt as if she hadn't been -asleep at all, and yet the misgivings of the night seemed endlessly far -off in time. - -"Well, what is it?" she answered, sitting up and pushing back her -pillow, and feeling rather cross, it must be said. - -"They've sent over from the other house to know if Jay is here," said -the waitress, out of breath, showing she had run up-stairs very fast. - -"_Here!_" cried Missy, springing to the door and opening it. "How should -he be here? Do you mean to say they cannot find him?" - -"Oh," gasped Ann, putting both hands on her heart, "Eliza's in a -dreadful way. She's just got in from spending the night at home, and -went up to the nursery to dress the children, and opened the door -softly, and there was Jay's crib empty, but Gabby sound asleep." - -"He'd gone into his father's room, no doubt," said Missy, pale and -trembling. - -"No," cried the woman, "she ran right off to Mr. Andrews' door, and he -called out the child wasn't there, and in a terrible fright, she came -over here. When I told her no, I knew he wasn't, she flew back." - -"Go there, quick, and tell me if they find him in the kitchen or -dining-room; maybe he missed Eliza and crept down-stairs and fell asleep -on the sofa in the parlor." - -This mission suited Ann exactly; she ran as her mistress bade her, but -failed to come back with news. Missy dressed in a moment of time. She -saw it all; she knew what she had heard in the night; she knew what the -boat had meant hovering about the harbor, shooting out of sight. She -knew what was the explanation of the fire, for which no one had ever -been able satisfactorily to account. She began to realize what it was -to have an enemy. The thought of that child's cry, so suddenly smothered -last night, sent a pang through her. She scarcely knew how she got her -clothes on; her hands shook as with an ague. When it came to opening the -front door to let herself out she found they were as weak as if she had -had a fever. Half-way across the lawn she met Ann, who shook her head -and wrung her hands, and turned back, and followed her. Ann liked to be -in the proscenium box when there was a tragedy on the boards; it would -be dull laying the breakfast table when all this excitement was going on -next door (though a trifle more useful). She ran after her mistress, who -did not stop till she reached the gate that led into the Andrews' yard. -There she found herself face to face with Mr. Andrews, who had come -hurriedly down the path with the confused air of one who had been waked -from sleep by a sudden and stunning blow. - -"What does it mean," he said to her, as she came into the gate. - -"You haven't found him?" she said, as they went together towards the -house. "Where are his clothes--what has been taken--what doors were -open?" - -"His clothes are left--only a blanket from the bed is missing--no doors -were open--a ladder was against the nursery window. I am bewildered. I -don't know what it means at all." - -"It means Alphonsine," cried Missy, leaning against the door for -support. "It means revenge and a reward. The boat we watched last -night--the sounds I heard in the night--ah, ah, don't let us waste a -moment. It was two o'clock when I heard the sound of oars--it is seven -now--and a good breeze blowing. Oh, my poor little Jay, where have they -got you by this time!" - -"You suspect that woman," said the father, "that I sent away last -autumn? But what motive--what provocation--what could have prompted such -an act? I confess I cannot follow you--" - -"Believe me, and don't waste a moment," cried Missy. "Rouse the village, -ring the bells, get out your boat, send for the Roncevalles, telegraph -to town to the police. The Roncevalles will take their yacht, she came -in yesterday--you know she's fast. Why do you look so doubtful? Mr. -Andrews, I love him as well as you do. I am sorry for you, but I shall -hate you if you are not quick. Every moment that you doubt me is a -moment lost. Jay is in the hands of wicked people. You will never see -him again, if you are not prompt. Those creatures have stolen him--they -will board some French ship outward bound; don't look for motive--they -know you have money--they want revenge for being sent away. Oh, my -little boy! What have I brought upon you!" - -And with a burst of tears, Missy hid her face. The poor man groaned and -turned away. He walked to the door and back, as if trying to steady his -brain and to think. - -Missy recovered herself in a moment, and making a step forward, with a -passionate gesture of the hands, "Do something," she cried. "Do not, do -not waste a moment." - -Then, seeing he still had not admitted her theory, but was weighing it -with a troubled mind, she exclaimed, "Send in a hundred different -directions if you will, but send my way first. You have no other plan -follow mine till something better comes before you; it is better to be -doing something than nothing." - -"You are right," he said, with sudden resolution, starting towards the -library door--"Send a woman over to Captain Perkins; tell Michael to -saddle Jenny." - -From that moment there was no lack of speed in carrying on the search. -In half an hour, the bells were ringing in the village steeples; the -telegraph wire was talking hotly into the Police Headquarters of the -city; men and boys were swarming on the beach. The good yacht Ilia, -which had loafed in yesterday, with no intention but to spend a few -hours in harbor, was ready at a moment's warning. In a hasty conclave of -half a dozen gentlemen, it had been decided that Miss Rothermel's -suspicions were quite worth acting upon, _faute de mieux_. There were -others who had seen the mysterious little craft; and one man who had -come upon a foreign-looking group encamped upon a lonely point of the -Neck, the day before. There were two men and a woman in the party, and -they had evidently shunned observation. There were foot-marks upon the -sand, a little below the Andrews' boat-house, and a track that the keel -of a boat had made when pushed off, in the falling tide. It was more -than probable that the child had been stolen with a view to the largest -reward, and that the matter had been well arranged; and Miss Rothermel's -idea, that out on the Sound some homeward-bound French ship was expected -to come along, which would take them on board, and put them beyond reach -of pursuit for many weeks at least, found favor. There was, of course, a -possibility of their having failed to meet their ship, or of their not -having such a plan; and all the neighborhood of the Necks, and the -shores along the Sound must be instantly searched; it was even possible -that their plan had been to secrete him in the city. Jay had been a -well-known and rather favorite little person in the neighborhood--Mr. -Andrews was understood to be rich--the people were naturally -kind-hearted--the occurrence was quite beyond the ordinary; in short, it -was a day unparalleled in Yellowcoats for excited feeling. Men were -scouring the woods on horseback and on foot, and patrolling the shores -in boats; mothers were leaving, equally, wash-tubs and piano-fortes, to -hug closer their own children and mourn over the dangers of poor Jay, -and listen for the latest news. People drove aimlessly about from house -to house; all day long there were groups on the steamboat wharf, and -along the shore that led to Mr. Andrews' house; the telegraph office was -besieged. Little work was done. I almost think there was no dinner -cooked in more houses than the Andrews' and the Varians'. - -When the Ilia sailed gallantly out of the mouth of the harbor, the -foremost and fastest of all the pursuing craft, people cheered and wept, -and prayed for the continuance of the stiff breeze that had been blowing -since day-break. But the stiff breeze was a two-edged sword that cut -both ways; while it helped the pursuers, it helped the pursued. - -At first, it was decided Mr. Andrews should not go on the yacht, but -should be on the spot to direct, and order the search in different -quarters. A hastily sworn-in officer was taken on board, and several -gentlemen who had full authority to act for him. But when the last boat -load was about to push off, a certain fierce impatience seemed to seize -him. He had taken up Missy's theory, it seemed, at last, and felt that -he could not let them go without him. He signalled them to wait, and -hurried across the lawn to Missy, who stood with a rigid face, watching -the vessel's sails filling with the breeze. - -"I believe I'm going with them," he said, "there is nothing I can do -here. If anything comes up, you will decide. The fact is, I can't stand -it, all day in suspense." - -"Then don't keep the boat waiting," said Missy, with ungraciousness. The -truth was, she wanted to go so wildly herself, she hated him for being -able to do what she could not. What was the suspense more to him than to -her, she thought. She must count all these dreadful hours at home, while -he could feel he was nearer, every moment, to some certainty, good or -bad, which must be so many hours further off from her. In a moment more -he had sprung aboard the little boat, and they were off. - -All this while Gabrielle had been wandering about, silent and eager. At -first she had been questioned, with few results, as to her knowledge of -the events of the night. She had denied, generally, having been awake or -knowing anything till Eliza had waked her up in her fright at finding -Jay's crib empty. Then, in the hurry and panic, she had dropped out of -notice. Missy found her standing beside her on the lawn, watching the -boat go off. A sudden doubt came into Missy's mind as she saw the -child's keen, silent face. - -"What was Alphonsine's last name?" she said to her, without preface. - -"Gatineau," she answered, promptly. - -"When did you see her last?" she asked, looking at her narrowly. - -"I--I--don't know--" faltered the child, turning her eyes away. - -"Yes, you do know, Gabby," said Missy, firmly. "Tell me quickly. Did you -see her yesterday?" - -"I promised not to tell," returned the child, faintly. - -"Come into the house with me," said Missy, taking her by the hand with -no uncertain grasp. "I want to talk to you about all this." - -There were groups of people upon the lawn, and Missy felt afraid to -trust herself to talk before them, afraid, also, that the presence of -strangers would weaken her power over the child, who followed her -unwillingly into the house. When there, she shut the door upon them, and -sat down, drawing Gabrielle towards her. - -"We all feel very unhappy about your little brother," she said, looking -directly into the oblique eyes of Gabrielle; "this is a terrible day for -your father and for us all." - -"They won't hurt him," faltered the child, uneasily. - -"They say they won't, but they may. They tell lies, those French people. -Alphonsine told lots of lies when she was here. We can't believe her, -even if she says she won't hurt Jay." - -"I know she won't," said Gabrielle. - -"We'd give anything to get him back," said Missy. "Tell me all that -happened; you shall not be punished." - -"I promised not," said the child, looking down, and glancing towards -the clock uncomfortably. Missy caught the direction of her glance. - -"Why do you look at the clock?" she asked. - -Gabrielle hung her head lower than before, and looked convicted. - -"When did she tell you you might tell?" demanded Missy, with keen -sagacity. - -"Not till after ten o'clock," murmured the girl. - -Missy's heart sank; it was just forty-five minutes past eight o'clock. -They had felt sure of safety if the child could be kept silent for that -length of time, and had no doubt set an outside limit to her silence. - -"You are quite right," said Missy, "in not breaking your promise. I -suppose she thought you would be punished to make you tell, and she told -you you must hold out till ten?" - -Gabrielle nodded, perplexed at this reading of her mind. - -"Always keep your word, even to wicked people," said Missy, getting up -and smoothing out some papers that were lying open on the table. "You -know =I= think Alphonsine is a wicked woman, but you must keep your word -to her all the same, you know." - -Gabrielle was quite reassured by this, and drew a freer breath. - -"She told me I might tell after ten o'clock if I couldn't help it, and -she'd give me--the--the--" - -"I understand," said Missy, "the reward she offered. Well, now, I'll go -and see about some things up-stairs, and you can come with me and put my -ribbon box in order. And at ten o'clock I'll call you to come and tell -me all about it." - -Gabrielle brightened. She had rarely had access to Missy's sashes and -ribbons; she longed to get at them, even at this agitated moment. While -she was shut in Missy's room in this congenial occupation, Missy went -down stairs and rapidly turned forward an hour the hands of the hall and -parlor clocks; then waiting fifteen minutes in breathless suspense, -called up to Gabrielle to come to her. She was sure the child would not -have any correct estimate of time, and saw her glance without surprise -at the clock on the mantelpiece, which pointed at ten. - -"Now, I suppose you may tell me all about it," she said, trying to speak -very indifferently. "Tell me when you first saw Alphonsine." - -"Day before yesterday," she said. "After dinner, when papa had taken Jay -to drive, and left me all alone." - -"Oh, where were you?" - -"I was down on the beach below the cedars. I heard somebody call me -softly up on the bank, and I looked up and saw Alphonsine beckoning to -me. So I went up, and she took me behind the bushes and talked to me." - -There was a long pause. - -"Well," said Missy, trying to smooth out her voice as she smoothed out -the creases in a piece of work she had in her hand. "Well, what did she -say?" - -"I don't know," murmured Gabby, getting uneasy, and twisting around on -her heels, and getting out of range of her interlocutor's eyes. "I don't -know--all sorts of things." - -"Oh, I suppose she talked about me, and asked whether your papa came to -our house often, and all that." - -Gabby gave her a doubtful, sharp look. - -"Ye--es," she said. - -"And you told her about that, and then she said--?" - -Gabby, relieved to have this most delicate part of the conversation so -passed over, went on to state that Alphonsine had coaxed her to tell her -all about Eliza, the nurse, and when Eliza went out, and all about the -ways of the other servants in the house. And when she knew that Eliza -was going out to stay away till morning, the next night, she had told -Gabby she had a great secret to tell her, and made her promise to keep -it. She then told her, Jay was the cause of all her (Gabrielle's) -trouble, and that if he went away she wouldn't be snubbed so, and her -papa would give her plenty of money and buy jewelry for her, instead of -laying it all up, as he did now, for Jay. This part of her communication -Gabby made with much shame-facedness, and many oblique looks at her -companion. This latter was discreet, however, and helped the narrative -on with many little questions which took off the edge of its badness. -Gabby admitted that Alphonsine had given her a ring at this stage of the -interview, and that she had said she was going to give her something -else, if she did what she asked of her. Then she said she had been -getting married to a German sea-captain, who was rich, and wanted a -little boy. And she liked Jay, and was going to see if she couldn't get -Jay to come away and live with her. But, of course, Jay mustn't know -anything about it, for he was so little he would tell it all to his -papa, and that would spoil everything. She would come that next night, -after Eliza had gone out, and talk to Jay herself about it. But Gabby -must promise to get up softly as soon as Eliza went away, and unfasten -the window that opened on the shed, if it should be shut, and also -promise to lie quite still, and not speak till she was spoken to, if she -heard her come. Then, at that visit, she would bring her a locket and a -fine sash, which she had bought for her. And then, with many flattering -words, she sent her away, staying herself till some one came for her in -a boat, she said. - -All the next day, Gabrielle felt very important, having this secret, and -knowing what a visitor they were going to have in the night. She watched -Eliza go off that evening with much satisfaction. It grew dark, and very -soon Jay was fast asleep, and she got up and opened the window, and -there lay awake and waited for Alphonsine. Hours passed. She heard her -father come in and go to his room, and all the house shut up. Then she -thought Alphonsine wasn't coming, and had been laughing at her. So she -went to sleep at last and didn't know anything more till she heard Jay -make a cry, and then heard somebody hush him up and put something over -his mouth. She sat up in bed and saw, by a light put in one corner, and -shaded, that Alphonsine had Jay in her arms, bundled up in a blanket, -and that somebody was waiting half-way in at the window. This was a man, -Gabrielle knew when she saw Alphonsine hurry to the window and put Jay -in his arms, for he spoke German in a low, hoarse, man's voice. She was -frightened at seeing Jay taken away out into the darkness in a strange -man's arms, and she began to cry. Alphonsine uttered a bad word, and -told the man to go on, she must settle this stupid. She spoke in German, -but Gabrielle knew German. Then she came back to Gabrielle, and was very -coaxing, thrusting into her hand the package she had promised, but -telling her she had a pair of bracelets that matched the locket, that -she had meant to bring her, but would send her, if she held her tongue -until after ten in the morning. - -"No matter what they do to you," she said, "hold your tongue till then, -and you will never need be sorry. I shall know, for I have somebody here -that tells me all about what's going on. And if I hear you haven't told, -you'll have your bracelets by express on Thursday. You see I keep my -promise; look at the locket, and see if it isn't beautiful, and the -bracelets are worth ten of it." - -Then, with hurried words of caution, she left her--only looking back to -say, "Tell Madamoiselle next door if she finds out I have been here, -that I have not forgotten her. I would do a good deal for the love of -her." - -The window Gabrielle closed, because she was a little afraid, but the -lamp she put out in obedience to Alphonsine's injunction, after she had -looked at the locket, which was very big, and very gay with garnets. The -sash, too, was quite magnificent, showing that Alphonsine was playing -for high stakes. She had wrapped these two treasures up, and, together -with the ring, they were tightly concealed in the bosom of her dress. -She had not had time to admire them as they deserved, not having dared -to bring them out till she should be alone. Now, however, she yielded -very willingly to Missy's invitation to unbutton her dress, and brought -them to the light. Missy took them with trembling hands; they were the -price of blood, and she almost shuddered at the touch of the little -monster who pressed close to her to gaze with delight upon her -treasures. Not one word in the narrative had indicated remorse, or -sorrow for being parted from her little brother. The servants, and the -children in the street, seemed to have more feeling. After Missy had -looked at the showy French locket, she unwrapped the sash, thinking, as -she did so, how much reliance could be placed on the woman's statement -that she was married to a German sea-captain. The paper in which the -sash was wrapped first she had not noticed. The inner paper was a plain -white one. Some writing on the outer paper, which had been loosely wrapt -round the parcel, caught her eye. It was a part of a bill of lading of -the Hamburg barque Frances, bound to Valparaiso, and it bore date three -days back, and was signed by G.A. Reitzel, captain. Alphonsine had not -meant to leave this trace; in her hurry, perhaps, she had pulled this -paper out of her pocket with the package. Gabrielle said it had not been -wrapped around it, but had been with it when in the hurry and the -darkness she had thrust it into her hand. Missy sprang up in haste. This -was an important clew. How should she get the news to the Ilia? She left -the astonished Gabrielle and flew down stairs. One or two gentlemen were -on the beach below the house, talking, and scanning the harbor with -glasses. She ran down to them and communicated her news. It might make -all the difference, they said, and they estimated its importance as -highly as she did. It was of the greatest moment that they should be -warned to look for a German barque and not a French one; besides the -difference of the course she would take for Valparaiso if she got out to -sea before they overhauled her. Missy shivered. - -"Don't talk of that," she said. "The suspense would be unbearable. I -look for them back to-night." - -The elder of the gentlemen shook his head. "You must remember they had -nearly seven hours the start of us," he said, "and a good stiff breeze -since daybreak." - -"But the delays," said Missy, "and the uncertainty of coming up with the -vessel at the right moment. I count on their losing hours in that." - -"But then," returned the other, "the woman must have had good assurance -of their arrangements to have taken the embargo off the child at ten." - -"How shall we overtake them and get this news to them?" asked Missy, -finding speculation very tiresome which did not lead up to this. No one -could suggest an answer. The Ilia was the quickest vessel anywhere -about, and it would be an impossibility to overtake her. - -"Can't you telegraph to some station a few miles further down the Sound -than she can yet be, and tell them to send out a boat and watch for her, -and board her with the message?" said Missy. This was finally decided -on, and carried out with some variations. - -About two o'clock, a message was received that the Ilia had been -boarded, and was in possession of the intelligence. She had evidently -sighted no Hamburg bark, or she would have sent back word to that -effect, nor had she made quite as good time as they had hoped she would. -The wind was slackening, and varying from one quarter to another. It -would not hold out much longer, every one agreed in thinking. And so the -afternoon wore on. Some of the gentlemen went in to the Varians and got -a glass of wine and some lunch in the dining-room. Others drove away -and came back again. Always there were two or three on the lawn, and -some one was always at the glass by the beach gate. - -Missy shut herself into her own room. Even her mother's sympathy was no -help. She wanted to be let alone; the suspense was telling on her -nerves. She had hardly eaten at all, and there had scarcely been a -moment till now, that she had not been using her wits in the most active -way. Poor wits; they felt as if they were near a revolt. But what could -she do with them for the hours that remained, before a word, good or -bad, could come from the slim little yacht and her gallant crew? Hours, -she talked about. She well knew it might be days. One of the gentlemen -on the lawn had said, of course she would return if by midnight they had -met with no success; they were not provisioned for a cruise; and at best -would never think of going out to sea. This gentleman was elderly, and -had a son on board the Ilia. Missy scorned his opinion--now that Mr. -Andrews had gone, there would be no turning back. She did not say -anything, but she felt quite safe, provisions or no provisions. The day -did wear away--as all days do. - - "Be the day weary, or never so long, - At last it ringeth to evensong." - -Evensong, however, brought its own additions to the misery. If it were -hard to think of the betrayed child, alone with such cruel keepers, when -the sun shone, and the waves danced blue and white, it was little short -of maddening when the twilight thickened, and the long day died, and -the thick, starless night set in. Missy could not stay in the house -after dark; it seemed to her insupportable to be within four walls. She -paced the beach below the lawn, or sat under shelter of the boat-house, -and watched the bonfire which the men had made a few feet off, and which -sent a red light out a little way upon the black waters. - -A little way, alas, how little a way! Missy's eyes were always strained -eagerly out into the darkness beyond; her ears were always listening for -something more than the lonely sounds she heard. It seemed to her that -it would be intolerable to watch out these hours of darkness and -silence; she must penetrate them. She felt as if her solicitude and -wretchedness would be half gone if the night were lifted, and the day -come again. Ten o'clock struck--eleven--the outsiders, one by one, -dropped off. There were left two or three men who had been hired by some -of the gentlemen to watch the night out by the bonfire; Mr. Andrews' own -man, the Varians' man, and Missy and Goneril. Eliza, the nurse, worn out -and useless, had gone to bed. Of course, Ann was expended, and no one -but Goneril had nerve and strength left to be of any service. She had a -real affection for the little boy, with all her ungraciousness, and -felt, with Missy, that the house was suffocating, and sleep impossible. -She had got Miss Varian into her bed, and then told her she must fight -her burglars by herself, for Miss Rothermel needed her more than she. -This put Miss Varian in a rage, but Goneril did not stop to listen. She -went to Mrs. Varian's room, and soothed her by taking down warm wraps -for Missy, and promising to stay by her till she consented to come up -and go to bed. She also carried down coffee and biscuits to the men, and -made Missy drink some, and lie down a little while inside the boat-house -door. It was surprising how invaluable Goneril was in time of trouble, -and how intolerable in hours of ease. - -Midnight passed, and in the cold, dreary hours between that and dawn, -poor Missy's strength and courage ebbed low. She was chilled and ill; -her fancy had been drawing such dreadful pictures for her they were -having the same effect upon her as realities. She felt quite sure that -the child never would be restored to them; that even now, perhaps, his -life was in danger from the violent temper of the wicked woman in whose -hands he was; that if she found herself near being thwarted in her -object, she was quite capable of killing him. Her temper was violent, -even outstripping her cunning and malice. Poor little boy! how terrified -and lonely he would be, shut down, perhaps, in some dark hole in the -ship. "I want you, Missy! I want you, Missy!" he had cried, heartbroken, -in the darkness of his own nursery. What would be his terror in the -darkness of that foreign ship. She felt such a horror of her own -thoughts that she tried to sleep; failing that, she made Goneril talk to -her, till the talking was intolerable. - -The men around the fire smoked and dozed, or chatted in low tones; the -wind, which had come up again, made a wailing noise in the trees, the -rising tide washed monotonously over the pebbles; a bird now and then -twittered a sharp note of wonder at the untimely light of the fire upon -the beach. These were the only sounds; the night was unusually dark; a -damp mist shut out the stars, and there was no moon. - -It was just two o'clock; Missy had bent down for the fiftieth time to -look at her watch by the light of the bonfire; Goneril, silent and -stern, was sitting with her hands clasped around her knees, on the -boat-house floor, when a sudden sound broke the stillness, a gun from -the yacht as she rounded into the harbor. The two women sprang to their -feet, and Missy clutched Goneril's arm. - -"If those milk-sops have come back without him," said the latter between -her teeth, answering Missy's thought. Surely they would not have come -without him; the father was not a man to give up so; and yet it was -earlier than any one had supposed it possible they could return; and the -wind had been so variable, and the night so dark. Could it be that they -had come in, disheartened and hungry? feeling the barque was beyond -their reach upon the seas, and excusing themselves by sending after her -steam instead of sail? - -The men around the fire sprang up at the sound of the gun, and in an -instant were all alertness. One threw a fresh armfull of wood on the -fire "to make it more cheerful-like;" two others sprang into a small -boat and pushed out to meet the yacht. - -"It'll be a half hour before they can anchor and get off a boat and -land," said Goneril, impatiently. "It'll never occur to 'em that anybody -on shore may want to know the news they've got. As long as they know -themselves, they think it's all that's necessary." - -Missy felt too agitated to speak. The long excitement had taken all her -strength away, and a half hour more of suspense seemed impossible to -bear. Goneril also found it intolerable; she had not lost her strength -by the day's agitation, but she had no patience to stand still and wait -for them. - -"I'll run up and tell the cook to have some coffee ready for the -gentlemen, and some supper. Most likely they've come in for that. Men -don't work long upon an empty stomach. The boy wouldn't be much to them -if the provisions had given out." - -With this sneer she hurried away, and left Missy alone. She came back, -however, before the sound of oars drew very near the beach. She had -caught up a lantern from the hall table as she passed it, and lighted it -at the fire. It gave a good light, and shone up into her handsome face, -as she paced up and down restlessly upon the beach. - -"Well, they'll soon be here," she said, standing still and listening to -the regular stroke of the oars, and the sound of voices out in the -darkness gradually coming nearer. "They can't be much longer, if they -don't stop to play a game of euchre on the way, or toss up which shall -stand the supper. Much they care for anything but that. If they could -smell the coffee it would hurry them. Men are all alike." - -The voices came nearer; Missy's eager eyes saw the boat's prow push into -the circle of light that went out from the bonfire, but the mist made it -impossible to discern what and who were in her. She made a step forward, -and the water washed against her feet; she clasped her hands together -and gazed forward, scarcely seeing anything for her agitation. Goneril -stood just behind her, on the sand, holding up the lantern, which shone -through Missy's yellow hair. Missy saw some one spring ashore; she -heard the captain's hearty voice call out: - -"All right, Miss Rothermel; you put us on the right track; we've brought -the little fellow back, safe and sound, to you." - -Then some one else stepped out upon the sand; some one else, with -something in his arms, and, in a moment more, a little pair of arms, -warm and tight, hugged her neck, and a fretful voice cried: - -"Let me go to Missy--I want Missy--" and Mr. Andrews hoarsely said, -trying to take him back, seeing her stagger under his weight, - -"Let me carry you; you shall go to Missy in a moment, and you shan't be -taken away from her again." - -They were within a few steps of the boat-house; Missy, with the child -clinging obstinately to her, staggered into it, and then--well, it was -all a blank after that; for the first time in her life, and the last in -this history, she fainted dead away. - -Jay stopped his crying, Goneril dropped her lantern, Mr. Andrews started -forward and caught her in his arms. The other gentlemen, directed by -Goneril, had already gone towards the house; Goneril, in an instant, -seeing what happened, called to one of the men on the beach, to run for -water and some brandy, and kneeling down, received Missy in her arms, -and laid her gently down upon some shawls. Mr. Andrews caught up the -lantern, and anxiously scanned the very white face upon the shawls. It -looked dreadfully like a dead face; poor Jay was awestruck, and crept -close to his father's side. Goneril chafed her hands, loosened her -dress, fanned her, moved the shawls and laid her flatter on the floor. -But it was an obstinate faint; even Goneril looked up alarmed into Mr. -Andrews' alarmed face. - -"I wish we had the doctor, though he's an ass," she said. "Send your man -there for him, quick as he can go; but don't you go away yourself, I -might want you--I don't know what is going to happen." - -It was a moment's work to despatch the man, who was helping haul up the -boat, which half a man could have done. The brandy and the water soon -arrived, but failed to produce any apparent effect. "You take that hand, -rub it--don't be afraid--rub it hard," said Goneril, as Mr. Andrews, -kneeling on the other side, set down the lantern. "I don't like this -sort of thing. I've seen a dozen women faint in my life, but they came -to as quick as wink, if you dashed water on 'em. I've heard people do -die sometimes of their feelings--but I never believed it before. But -then, I needn't wonder--this has been an awful day, and she's looked, -poor thing, like dead for the last four hours or more. Heavens, there -ain't a bit of pulse in her. Just you put your ear down: _I_ can't hear -her heart beat--why _don't_ that idiot hurry; not that he'll do any good -by coming, but, my conscience, I don't want her to die on my hands. I've -had enough of this sort of business. I wouldn't go through such another -day. I've heard of people losing their heads when they were most -wanted--I--I don't know what to do--I believe I've lost mine now--" and -Goneril dropped the hand which she had been fiercely chafing, and -starting up, stood with her arms upon her hips, gazing down on Missy. - -Poor Goneril, the day had been a hard one, and she was made of the same -clay as other women, though a little stiffer baked. She had lost her -head, and her nerves were shaken, for once in her experience. Mr. -Andrews' day certainly had not been less hard, but he had a man's -strength to go upon, and not a woman's. - -"Let us see," he said, lifting Missy and laying her where the wind blew -fresh upon her from the door, then hurrying to another door pushed it -open violently with his knee--"Hold the lantern down," he said--"Now -give me the brandy," and he forced a drop or two into her mouth. The -change of position, or the stimulant, or the fresh wind in her face, -started her suspended powers into play--and a slight movement of the -lips and a flutter in the pulse on which Mr. Andrews' hand was laid, -showed him Goneril had been in a panic, and Missy was only paying the -penalty of being an excitable woman. I hope he didn't think it was a -nuisance, considering it was all about his boy. Goneril was quite -ashamed of herself for having lost the head on which she so prided -herself. She was almost sharp with the young lady, when, after more -rubbing and more brandy, she opened her eyes and looked about her. - -"I didn't know you was one of the fainting kind or I should have been -prepared for you," she said, raising her up and putting some pillows and -shawls behind her. The pillows and shawls she had twitched into place -with asperity, the tone in which she spoke was not dulcet. - -"You have given us a great fright," said Mr. Andrews, drawing a long -breath as he stood up; and, taking off his hat, passed his hand over his -forehead. - -"It doesn't take much to frighten a man," said Goneril tartly. "Please -to shut that door. Cold's as bad to die of as a fainting fit, and it's -like a pair of bellows blowing on her back." - -"What are you talking about, and where am I?" murmured poor Missy, a -sickened look passing over her face, as her eyes fell on Mr. Andrews. He -wasn't slow to understand it, and kneeling down beside her, said: - -"You have had too much excitement to-day, and getting Jay back made you -faint. Now, don't think any more about it, but let me assure you, he is -well and safe." - -For Master Jay, like a valiant little man, had slunk out of sight at the -occurrence of the fainting fit, and stood outside the door-post, around -which he gazed furtively back upon the group, prepared to depart -permanently, if anything tragic came about. He was thoroughly masculine, -was Jay; he never voluntarily stayed where it wasn't pleasant. - -When Missy heard Mr. Andrews' words, and knew that her keen suspense had -ended, she began to cry hysterically. Everybody knows that the physical -sensations of coming back after a faint are not joyful, no matter what -news you hear. It was all horror and suffering, and Missy wept as if her -heart were broken instead of being healed. Goneril chided her with very -little regard to distinction of class; but they had been -fellow-sufferers for so many hours, she seemed in a manner privileged. - -"I can't think what you're taking on so about," she said, spreading the -shawl out over Missy's feet, picking up the lantern, and tidying up the -boat-house as a natural vent to her feelings. "There might have been -some sense in it if they had come in without the child, as we thought -they would; or if he'd been your own child, or if it had been any fault -of yours, that he got carried off. There's nothing ever gained by -bothering about other people's troubles; folks have generally got enough -to do in getting along with their own. The Lord gives you grace to bear -what He sends you--at least He engages to; but there ain't any promises -to them that take on about what they've taken up of themselves. Don't -set your heart on other people's children unless you want it broken for -you. And don't go to managing other people's matters unless you want to -get into the hottest kind of water. You burn your fingers when you put -'em into other people's pies. Every man for himself and every woman for -herself, most emphatic. Keep your tears till the Lord sends you children -of your own to cry about; goodness knows you'll need 'em all if you ever -come to that." - -Goneril had had two children in her early disastrous marriage; one had -died, and one had lived to go to destruction in his father's steps, so -she always bore about with her a sore heart, and the passionate love of -children, which she could not repress, she always fought down fiercely -with both hands. Her sharp words did not soothe Missy much. She cried -and cried as if there were nothing left to live for, and the fact that -Mr. Andrews was there and was trying to make her hear him above -Goneril's tirade, did not help matters in the least. - -"If you'll take my advice," said Goneril to this latter person, dashing -some more brandy and water into a glass, and speaking to him over her -shoulder as she did it, "If you'll take my advice, you'll go away and -leave her to get over it by herself. She's just got to cry it out, and -the sight of you and the boy'll only make it worse. Take him home and -put him to bed, and let's have a little common sense." - -"Oh, go away, go away, everybody," cried poor Missy, smothering her face -down in the shawls. - -"Take this," said Goneril, sternly, holding the brandy and water to her -lips, which she had no choice but to take, and it was a mercy that she -didn't strangle amidst her sobs. But she didn't, and found voice to say, - -"I am better. I don't want anything but to be by myself," before she -began to sob again. - -Thus adjured, it was natural that poor Mr. Andrews should think it best -to go away. Nobody wanted him, evidently, and he had been ordered away -by two women, when one was always quite enough for him. So he took Jay -by the hand and went out into the dim path that led up to his own house. -It was, no doubt, time to put the child to bed! The clock in the hall -was just proclaiming three in its queer voice, as he went in, and -stumbled through the darkness up to the nursery, where he had to go -through another scene with the nurse, who woke up and was hysterical. - -But Jay soon battered the hysterics out of her. He had been fretful -before, but now he was fiendish, and it was as much as they could do to -get him into bed. I am afraid it passed through her mind that he'd -better have got to France, and it took all the paternal love of Mr. -Andrews to keep from inaugurating his return home by a good thrashing. -The tragic and comic and very unpleasant are mixed in such an intimate -way in some cups. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -ENTER MISS VARIAN. - - -The next day about noon Mr. Andrews, with Jay by the hand, walked up the -steps of the Varians' house. He had got a few hours of sleep after -daylight, and had just swallowed a cup of coffee and called it -breakfast, and now, looking haggard and weary, had, as was proper, come -over to see about Missy and her hysterics. - -She too had just come down-stairs, and was sitting in a great chair by -the window in the parlor, with footstool under her feet and an afghan -spread over her. The day was cool and brilliant; all the fogs and clouds -of the night had been blown away by a strong north wind; the sun was -coming in at the window, and Missy was trying to get warm in it, for she -felt like Harry Gill in the story-book, as if she should never get warm -again. She was pale, and lay with her head back in the chair, looking a -disgust with life and its emotions. From this attitude she was roused by -the unexpected entrance of Jay and his father, whose approach she had -not heard. She changed color and tried to stand up, and then sat down -again. - -"Don't get up," said Mr. Andrews, lifting Jay to kiss her. "There, Jay, -now you'd better go away. Find Goneril and play with the kittens a -little while, and then I'll take you home." - -He opened the door for Jay, who was very willing to go, not feeling -quite at home with Missy yet, since the fainting-fit. He looked askance -at her as he went out of the door, as at one who had come back from the -dead. - -"He wasn't worth all I went through for him yesterday," thought Missy. -And then she took it back, and thought, in an instant, he was worth a -great deal more--which was a way of hers. - -Mr. Andrews sat down on the other side of the window, and said, with a -weary laugh, as he leaned back in his chair, "I'm glad it's to-day, -instead of yesterday." - -"Ah!" said Missy, with a shiver. - -"I don't know how much you've heard of our adventures--" - -"I haven't heard anything. I have just come down-stairs, and last night -I wouldn't let them tell me. I only wish I could forget it all. I cannot -bear to think of it." - -"I don't wonder. It was bad enough for us, who were doing something all -the time, but for you, who couldn't do anything but wait, it must have -been--well, there's no use going over it. We've got him, Miss Rothermel, -and that's enough to think about. Only let me tell you this, if it -hadn't been for you, we should not have him now." - -"If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have lost him at all," said -Missy, bitterly. - -"I don't understand--you mean the woman's hostility to you? I really -think that had very little to do with it. She is such an evil creature, -she would have done the same, or worse, without that for an excuse. You -may, rather than reproach yourself for that, congratulate yourself upon -having been the means of sending her away, before the child was totally -corrupted. When I think what danger he--they--were in from her, and how -little I suspected it, I am more than ever convinced that I am not fit -to have the care of him. Believe me, you did me, as well as the -children, an inestimable favor, when you advised me to send those -creatures away; and to you I owe a year of comfort and peace, and Jay -owes, I don't know what." - -Missy flushed painfully, and her companion saw it, but he went on -ruthlessly, "You never will let me allude to this, Miss Rothermel; but I -want to say one thing about it, now we are on the subject, and then I -will promise not to trouble you again. You are so over-sensitive about -this matter you have made yourself uncomfortable, and--well--though it's -not of much importance--you've made me uncomfortable too. If you will -believe me when I say I shall always consider you did me the greatest -favor when you induced me to send those servants away, and if you will -bear in mind the benefit you did the children, you will surely be able -to be indifferent to the tattle of a set of people whose tongues are -always busy about their betters, in one way or another. If they were not -talking about this, they would be talking about something else; it was -only the accident of your hearing it that was unusual. I have no doubt -in our kitchens every day are said things that would enrage us, but -luckily we don't hear them. This has been such a barrier between us, -Miss Rothermel; won't you be good enough to make way with it to-day, and -promise not to think of it again? You have given me a new cause for -gratitude in what you did for Jay yesterday. Surely, after what we both -went through we can never be exactly like--like strangers--to each -other. I hope you'll let me come a little nearer to being a friend than -you've ever permitted me before, though if I recollect, you made a very -fair promise once about it." - -"Why haven't I kept it? I can't remember having--" - -"Having snubbed me badly since that night. No, I acknowledge that you -have kept your resolution pretty fairly. But then, you know, it was -impossible not to see it was an effort all the time. If you could forget -all this about the servants, and let us be the sort of friends we might -have been if Gabrielle had never meddled, you would lay me under another -obligation, and a more binding one than any of the others, great as they -have been." - -Mr. Andrews was talking very earnestly, and in a manner unusual to him. -One could not help seeing that nothing short of the events of yesterday -could have made it possible for him to speak so. His heart had been -jarred open, as it were, by the great shock, and had not yet closed up -again. It wouldn't take many hours more to do it; Missy realized that -perhaps he wouldn't speak so again in his life; the moment was precious -to her, because, whether she liked him or not, there is a pleasure in -looking into reserved people's hearts; one knows it cannot happen every -day. - -And that was the moment that Miss Varian chose for coming into the -parlor, with Goneril and Jay and the kittens. She had heard his voice, -and she naturally wished to hear all about the affair of the pursuit. -Goneril was nothing loth, and Jay was quite willing to go if the -kittens went, so here the party were. Missy involuntarily bit her lips. -Mr. Andrews' forehead contracted into a frown as he got up and spoke to -Miss Varian, who settled herself comfortably into a chair. - -"Now," she said taking her fan from Goneril, and getting her footstool -into the right place, "now let us hear all about it." - -Mr. Andrews, with a hopelessly shut-up look, said he didn't think there -was much to tell. - -"Not much to tell!" she echoed. "Why, there's enough to fill a novel. I -never came so near to a romance in my life. I positively wouldn't have -missed yesterday for a thousand dollars. It gives one such emotions to -know so much is going on beside one, Mr. Andrews." - -Mr. Andrews didn't deny her statement, nor a great many others that she -made, but he seemed to find it very difficult to satisfy her curiosity. -In fact, she got very little out without mining for it. She asked the -hour when they first sighted the barque, and she got it. Two o'clock. -Then the course they took, and the changes of the wind, and the -deviations that she made, and the reasons that they did not gain upon -her for an hour or more. All this might have been interesting to a -sea-faring mind, but not to Miss Varian's. She asked questions and got -answers, but she fretted and didn't seem to find herself much ahead. -Missy knew Mr. Andrews had come over to tell _her_ all about it--but not -Miss Varian. He really did not mean to be obstinate, but he couldn't -tell the story with the others present. Missy gathered a few bald facts, -to be filled out later from the narrative of others. She didn't feel a -consuming curiosity. Jay was here, the woman wasn't. That was enough -for the present. She felt a far greater interest in those few words Mr. -Andrews had been interrupted in saying. They went over and over in her -mind. She only half attended to Miss Varian's catechism. - -"Well," cried Goneril, who was hopelessly jolted out of her place by the -events of yesterday, "well, one would think you'd had a child stolen -every other day this summer, by the way you take it. Captain Symonds, -over on the Neck, made twice the fuss about his calf, last autumn. I -don't believe yet he talks about much else." - -Miss Varian gave her maid a sharp reprimand, and asked Mr. Andrews -another question in the same breath. - -"How did the French woman act when the warrant was served on her?" - -"Oh, well, just as any Frenchwoman would have acted under the -circumstances, I suppose. You know they're apt to make a scene whether -there's any excuse for it or not." - -"But did she cry, or scold, or threaten, or swear, or coax, or what?" - -"Why, a little of all, I think; a good deal of all, indeed, I might say. -She tired us out, I know." - -"But did she seem frightened? How did she take it? What was the first -thing she said when she saw the officer?" - -"Upon my word, I have forgotten what she said. I heard Jay's voice in -the cabin, and I was thinking more about him, I suppose." - -"But what excuse did she make for herself? How did she put it?" - -"Oh, a woman never has any trouble to find excuses. She seemed to have -plenty." - -"But what possessed you to be so soft-hearted as to let her go?" - -"What did I want of her? I was only too happy that she should go, the -further off the better." - -"I must say I think you were ridiculously weak." - -"That is just possible." - -"And she, and the wretch she called her husband, all are on their way to -South America?" - -"I hope so, I am sure." - -"What did the captain say? How could he answer for stopping to take up -the party in the night? Did he pretend to be ignorant of what they were -about?" - -"Yes, he assured us he was ignorant, and I should not wonder if he spoke -the truth--French truth, perhaps; but I don't believe he suspected more -than a little smuggling venture, or an un-actionable intrigue of some -kind. He knew the man somewhat, and made a bargain to lay outside the -harbor for a few hours, and pick them up if they came out before -daylight. The man told him it was his wife and child, who had been -detained in the country by the illness of the child, and that he would -pay him fifty dollars, besides the passage money, if he'd wait for them. -No doubt the captain suspected something, but, as I say, nothing so -serious as the job they'd undertaken." - -"The wretch! He ought to have had his ship brought back to port, and -have been kept there for a month, at least, and lost his cargo, and been -put to no end of loss and law. You were ridiculously weak, Mr. Andrews, -to let him go, and worse than weak to let the woman go." - -"Maybe so, Miss Varian, maybe so. It wouldn't be the first time, at any -rate." - -"To think of that horrid creature going off and doing what she chooses!" - -"I'd rather think of her in South than in North America. And as to doing -what she chooses--she'll do that, whichever continent she's on--for she -is a woman." - -"You should have shut her up in prison, and made that captain suffer all -that the law could put upon him. You wouldn't appear against them -because you are too lazy, Mr. Andrews, and that is the English of it. -And so other people's children may be stolen, and other vessels go -prowling around our shores, and this sort of thing be done with perfect -impunity, Mr. Andrews, with perfect impunity." - -"I am very sorry, Miss Varian, but I hope it won't be as bad as you -anticipate. There are not many women as wicked as Alphonsine, and I -don't think she will try it again." - -"Try it again! Why, she will try something worse. She will never rest. I -shan't sleep easy in my bed. I do not think we are safe from her -attempts, any one of us." - -Thereupon Goneril laughed, a most disrespectful laugh, though a -suppressed one, and her mistress, in a temper, ordered her out of the -parlor. She obeyed the order in the letter, but not in the spirit, -pausing to talk to Jay about the kittens, and then inviting him to the -piazza, where, the windows being open, she could hear the conversation -within as well as before. This episode broke the thread of Miss -Varian's catechism, and she forgot Alphonsine in her wrath against -Goneril. Meanwhile, a carriage drove up with visitors; Mr. Andrews -hurried to depart, Missy disappeared into the adjoining room, and Miss -Varian, being left to entertain them, soon forgot her maid's offenses. -Visitors were a balm for most wounds, with her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -AT THE BEACH GATE. - - -A fortnight after this, Mr. Andrews was smoking his post-prandial cigar -with the Varians at the beach gate, and watching the sunset. It had been -a fortnight of not very varied experiences. Mr. Andrews had chiefly -learned from it how difficult it was to see much of his neighbors -without making it a formal business. It was in vain to ask Miss -Rothermel to drive; equally unfruitful to ask her to sail. So many -evenings of the week proved rainy, or foggy, or cold, that this was only -the third cigar he had smoked on their lawn since the evening when they -watched the boat which was lying in wait for poor Jay. It was impossible -to deny that the evenings were lonely, and that meerschaum companions -were scarce, and that Mr. Andrews, since his stirring adventure, had -rather hankered for some one to speak to. This evening he said, rather -awkwardly, - -"Mrs. Varian, I am expecting some visitors this week. I am going to ask -you to call on them, and--and show them some attention." - -Missy, who was making some pictures on a slate for Jay on the ground at -her feet, suddenly looked up with a face of amazement. - -"I hope it isn't Mr. McKenzie, for he'd rather be excused from our -attentions," she said with a laugh. - -"No," said Mr. Andrews, looking embarrassed, "it isn't any of my boorish -men, Miss Rothermel. It is--some ladies." - -"Oh!" said Missy, and she dropped her eyes on Jay's pictures, and did -not say another word. What she thought, it would be unwise to -conjecture. For she felt a keen, fine tingle of anger all through her, -and she knew, as she looked at Jay's yellow mane lying on her lap, that -he was going to be taken away from her more surely than by Alphonsine, -and that there were breakers ahead, and her short-lived peace was going -to founder. She went through it all in such a flash that she felt her -fate was settled when Mr. Andrews spoke again. - -"I have asked my cousin, a charming person, Mrs. Eustace, whom I am sure -you'll like, to come with her daughter and spend the remainder of the -summer with me. They are without a home of their own at present, and are -drifting, and it seems to suit them very well." - -"No doubt," said Miss Varian, with keen interest. "I'm sure they'll have -a nice time. Is the daughter pretty?" - -"I believe so, rather," returned Mr. Andrews, beginning to feel -uncomfortable. "It is two or three years since I have seen her. They -have been living abroad some time." - -"I am sure," said Mrs. Varian, with gentle sympathy, "it will be a very -pleasant thing for you. You may depend upon us to do all we can to make -the ladies satisfied with Yellowcoats. I am sure they can't help liking -it if they do not care for gayety." - -"I am certain that they don't. They seem to me the very persons to be -happy here. They are cultivated; I'm _sure_ you'll like them, Miss -Rothermel, and the daughter has quite a talent for drawing, and they are -cheerful and always ready to be amused, and are generally very popular." - -"Well, well," cried Miss Varian, "now that sounds pleasant. They are -just what we want here. Missy needs somebody to stir her up a little, -she is a trifle set and selfish, and I tell her she never will be -popular till she gets over that and goes into things with a little dash -of jollity. It doesn't do to be too dictatorial and exclusive and -superior; people leave you behind and forget that you're anything but a -feature of the landscape. It's always been your mistake, Missy. Now -we'll see if it's too late to mend, and whether this young lady and her -mother will not teach you something." - -"I am sure," said Mr. Andrews, uncomfortably, "Miss Rothermel doesn't -need to be taught--anything. I should think it was rather the other -way." - -"Thank you," said Mrs. Varian, with a smile, covering up Missy's -silence. "I hope it need not be a matter of instruction either side. I -can quite understand neither young lady would enjoy that." - -"I don't know anybody would enjoy it less than Missy," cried Miss -Varian, sharply, for she scorned the making of peace. "But what we need, -is not always the thing we enjoy." - -"When do you expect your guests?" said Mrs. Varian, anxious to create a -diversion. - -"The latter part of the week, I should think; I don't quite know what -day. The children will be so much the better for having them, I shall be -glad when they are here. I shall feel so much safer about Jay, when I am -in town. You can understand for the last two weeks I have had a -continual feeling of uneasiness when I am away from him." - -Considering that he had spent every day since that fatal time, in -Missy's care, this did seem a little hard. She did not reflect, that -perhaps he did not know it--her bitter feelings did not favor calm -reflection. - -"Tell us something more about our future neighbors," said Miss Varian. -But Mr. Andrews had no ability to tell things when he was uncomfortable, -and the atmosphere was palpably uncomfortable, murky and lowering. He -didn't know what he had done, poor man, he had thought he had done such -a fine thing. But in spite of Mrs. Varian's gentle courtesy, and Miss -Varian's cheerful bantering, he knew he had made a mistake. He wished -himself well out of it, and was glad when Mrs. Varian found it chilly -and got up to go into the house. He had found it chilly for some time. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -FIVE CANDLES. - - -The week passed away; a good deal of it was spent by Mr. Andrews in the -city. The expected guests seemed uncertain in the matter of -appointments; either they didn't know their own minds, or they were -trying the mettle of their future host's temper. More than one night he -had stayed in town to meet them and to bring them up, but after a shower -of telegrams, no guests had come. At last, on Friday morning, he had -gone to town, and told the servants he did not know when he should be -back; till he sent a telegram they need not make any preparation for the -visitors. - -This day was Jay's birthday. With a sore heart, Missy had been preparing -for it. She was making this week a sort of valedictory. Every day might -be the last; Jay would never be hers after this. And he had never been -so sweet; he was gentle and good and loving, and never wanted to be out -of her sight. This birthday they had been talking of for many weeks. She -had planned an ideal treat for him; when, on this fatal Friday morning, -she woke up to the news that one of their own servants had come down -with what might be a case of scarlet fever. The girl was carefully -quarantined. Missy had not been near her, and did not propose to go near -her, but it broke up poor little Jay's party. It was impossible to allow -children to come to the house. She took him out for a drive, and all -that, but there was the birthday cake, and there were the candles, and -there were all the pretty little gifts that were to come out of the -simulated charlotte russe. They must have a feast, nothing else could -take its place. So that afternoon she took a sudden resolution. She -would make a sacrifice of her own feelings. She would go to the Andrews' -cottage and give Jay his fête there. - -"Do you think it's wise, Missy?" said her mother faintly. - -"It's kind, at all events," returned Missy. "The poor baby is going to -have hard times enough with the new cousins, it's but fair his last -birthday without them should be festive. I've sent to have the children -I'd invited for him come there. Now, don't look serious, mamma. One must -not be always thinking of one's self. And what is a fiction of -propriety, compared with Jay's happiness?" - -"Compared with his permanent happiness, nothing, but compared with an -afternoon's pleasure, a good deal, and you've been so rigid yourself -about it, Missy. You've eschewed that poor cottage like a pestilence. I -didn't suppose anything would tempt you into it. You felt so bitterly -about our staying there, though you didn't tell me; and I'm sure you've -never crossed the threshold since." - -"And I shouldn't cross it now, but that the master himself's away, -and--and in fact, I haven't the heart to disappoint the child, and -circumstances seem to make it my duty to give up my whim. In short, -mamma, it is too late to be sorry, for I've sent word to the children, -so don't, please, worry any more about it." - -At five o'clock the children came, two stout little girls with hair in -pigtails, and three freckled little boys with shaved heads; they were -the hopes of illustrious families. - -Missy contrasted them with Jay, and wondered that any one could endure -creatures so commonplace, and that patience could be found to provide -them nourishment and clothing. - -Jay, however, seemed to like them very much, and that gave them a -certain importance in her eyes. Gabrielle interested herself deeply in -the attire of the little girls, and the "party" proceeded with great -success through its various stages of shyness, awkward advances, rough -responses, good fellowship, to hilarious riot, and open warfare. They -had a series of games in the boat-house till six, then races on the lawn -till nearly seven, when Missy, tired of adjusting differences and -pinning collars, left them in Eliza's care, and went in to superintend -the arrangement of the tables and the darkening of the windows, so that -the candles might be lighted at half-past seven o'clock. She thought -less well of human nature than usual at the moment. Even in its budding -infancy it could be so disagreeable, and its innocence was so far from -pleasant, what would not its mature development be. Jay himself had -tired her out. He had been willful, selfish, wanting in love to her; his -party seemed to have turned him into somebody else. She again concluded -he wasn't worth it all; but since she had begun the fête, she must go -through with it. It gave her rather an uncomfortable feeling to be going -into the house she had forsworn so vehemently. It was doubly hard now -that Jay's naughtiness had taken away the last excuse she had; he -certainly had not enjoyed himself very much, had not, in fact, had so -many fits of crying and got into so many passions in the same number of -hours since Alphonsine went away last autumn. It certainly had been an -ill-starred birthday. When the waitress came to her for directions about -the table-cloth, she felt sure she detected a smile on her decorous -mouth, and when the cook put her head in at the door and begged to know -if Miss Rothermel wished the cold chicken sliced or whole, she felt all -through her that there was a shade of disrespect in the woman's tones. - -"I am sure," she said, "I know nothing about all that. I suppose you -will give them something for tea, as every day, and I will arrange for -them the cake, and the things that have been sent over from my house. -Only be as quick as you can, for it is getting late." - -The servants snubbed, Missy proceeded to arrange the bonbons. This -necessitated going to the china-closet for a dish to put them on. She -hated this. She wished herself out of the place; her cheeks grew -scarlet, stumbling about among _his_ plates and glasses, his decanters -and soup tureens. She heard low talking and laughing in the kitchen. -What a fool she had been to put herself in this position! What did Jay -have a birthday for, and tempt her out of her resolution? And then she -remembered the poor young mother, the anniversary of whose sufferings -they were keeping without a thought of her. She seemed to be fading out -of the memories of all, loving and unloving, among whom, only a year -ago, she had had her place. She was no more than a name now to her -children. Who could tell whether her husband remembered her departure -with relief or remorse, or remembered her at all? New servants moved -about the house which she had left; new household usages prevailed; -nothing of her seemed left. Here was one who had called herself her -friend, who had thought of her for the first time to-day--this day, -which her throes should have made sacred to her memory. - -Missy tried to catch at the shadow which seemed passing away from her; -tried to realize that this woman of whom she thought, had been, was, the -wife of the man whom she had grown to like, to listen to, to wonder -about. She tried to remember that this dark-eyed, pure-featured picture -was the mother of tawny, snub-nosed, ruddy Jay; but it was all a -picture, an effort of the brain, it was no reality. The reality seemed, -Jay, in the flesh, she who felt she owned him, and the father about whom -she could not keep her resolution, and the household which she had -reconstructed. - -The bonbons looked less pretty to her than when she bought them; she -wished the fête was over, and she herself out of this uncomfortable -house. The waitress, having ended her little gossip in the kitchen, came -in and laid the cloth and closed the windows, and lighted a lamp or two. -Missy arranged the bonbons and the flowers, and the deceitful charlotte -russe, with its cave of surprises. It was nearly half past seven -o'clock, and she put the cake upon the table, and proceeded to arrange -the five candles around it. Now, every one who has put candles around a -birthday cake knows that it is a business not devoid of difficulties. -The colored wax drips on the table-cloth, the icing cracks if you look -at it, the candles lean this way and that, the paper or the match with -which you have lighted them, drops upon the linen or the cake, and -makes a smutty mark. All these things happened to Miss Rothermel, and in -the midst of it, in trooped the impatient children, headed by Jay, who -had burst past Eliza, declaring that he wouldn't wait a minute longer. -The sight of the table was premature; she did not mean to have him see -it till it was perfect. He dragged a heavy chair up beside her, climbed -up on it, tugged at her dress, pushed her elbow, shrieked in her ear. -The moment was an unhappy one; Miss Rothermel was not serene, the -provocation was extreme; she turned short upon him, boxed his ears, took -him by the arms and set him down upon the floor. - -"You're such a little torment," she said, "there is no pleasure in doing -anything for you." - -Jay roared, the sudden, short roar of good-natured passion; the children -crowded round. Missy told them to stand back, while she bent forward to -rescue a candle, tottering to its fall. Jay hushed his howls, intent -upon the candle; the children were all around Missy, with their backs to -the door. Gabrielle had gone around to the other side of the table, -facing the door, and was leaning forward on her elbows, gazing silently, -not at Missy, but beyond her. The candle nodded over the wrong way, a -great blot of green wax dropped upon the table-cloth. Jay screamed with -excitement, and made a dash forward to get his hands in the wax. - -Missy stamped with her foot upon the floor--ah! that it must be -told!--and slapped his hands and pushed him back. And then the sudden -green gleam in Gabby's eyes made her start and look behind her. There -in the door stood--Mr. Andrews and two ladies. How long they had been -there, who can tell? There was a look of amusement on his face, a look -of eager curiosity on the faces of the strangers. The hall was not -lighted, the parlor was not lighted--the dining-room was, in contrast, -quite brilliant, and the decorated table and the group of children quite -a picture. Missy was not capable of speaking, for a moment. She caught -the candle and blew it out, and tried to find her voice, which seemed to -have been blown out, too. - -"What a charming picture," cried the young lady. "This, I know, is Miss -Rothermel--and which are my little cousins?--ah, this must be Jay--he is -your image, Mr. Andrews," and she flew upon him with kisses, while the -mother, singling out a stout, little girl, with a pigtail, not unlike -him in feature, embraced her as Gabrielle. While this mistake was being -rectified, and the correct Gabrielle being presented to her cousins, -Missy recovered herself enough to turn to Mr. Andrews and tell him she -did not think he was coming home that night. - -"The telegram wasn't received then? I sent it at ten o'clock this -morning." - -No, no telegram had been received. The waitress was standing by, the -picture of consternation, and corroborated the statement incoherently. -Missy then explained as well as she could, her presence in the house, -but nobody seemed to listen to her; the ladies were so engrossed with -caressing the children, they did not heed. Mr. Andrews himself seemed -not at all to be interested in any fact but that the children were -having a good time, and that to balance it was the companion fact that -there was no dinner ready. - -The cook was looking through the kitchen door, which was ajar, with a -bewildered face. The birthday cake and the bonbons were a mockery, no -doubt, to the hungry travelers. Missy wished the cake and the travelers -in the Red Sea together. - -"How charming," said Miss Eustace, rising from her knees before Jay, and -looking at the table. "How charming it is, and how good of you, Miss -Rothermel. Mamma, is she not good? Think of giving up all that time for -a little child who never can repay you!" - -"Miss Rothermel is unselfish," said the mother, releasing Gabby from a -final embrace. "Jay ought to love her very much. Jay, you do, I know. -Tell Miss Rothermel you love her." - -"And thank her for the party," cried the daughter, stooping over him -with irrepressible fondness, again. - -"I won't," said Jay, stoutly, pulling himself away. "It's none of you's -business." - -"Jay!" cried his father. - -But Missy moved forward, as if to protect him, and said, "He only means -that he and I can settle our accounts together. Can't we, Jay?" - -Jay did not answer otherwise than by clutching at her gown and scowling -back at the honeyed cousins. How sweet it was, that little fist tight in -her dress; Missy felt it almost made up for the whole affair, and gave -her resolution to make another and more definite apology for being -there. - -"I am sure," cried Miss Eustace, "you are unselfish, indeed. There isn't -one young woman in a hundred would have done it; taking all that -trouble, and coming over here by yourself,--without a lady in the house, -I mean, you know, and all that--and not minding about us, and not -standing on conventionalities, and such tiresome things. Oh, Miss -Rothermel, I am sure we shall be friends. I _hate_ proprieties, and I -love to do what comes into my head. I am so bored with the restrictions -that mamma is insisting on forever." - -Miss Rothermel changed color several times during this speech. It seemed -to her she had never been so angry before; one's youngest grievance is -always one's greatest, however. Perhaps she had hated people as much -before, but it did not seem so to her. She could not say anything, but -she moved towards the door, stooping down to loosen Jay's hands from her -dress. - -"I am very sorry," she said to Mr. Andrews, "to have been the means of -interfering with your dinner. I hope the cook will be able to get -something ready for you." - -"You are not going away?" said Mr. Andrews, anxiously. - -"The children will be so disappointed," said Mrs. Eustace. "We are not -used to them enough to make them happy, yet. Do stay, Miss Rothermel. It -is no matter at all about dinner. I was thinking if the cook would make -some tea and an omelette, and put some plates on for us, we could all -sit down, birthday and all, and make our meal. I think I'd better go out -and speak to her about it--or--or--perhaps you will go, Miss Rothermel?" - -Missy bit her lip, and did not answer, but passed on towards the door, -and her hand was unsteady as she opened it. Jay set up a howl, feeling -that things were wrong. But putting it upon his desire for cake, Miss -Eustace darted forward, and gave him a handful of bonbons, to pacify -him, and taking up a knife, was going to cut the cake. But Jay, who had -correct feelings about the cake, only howled the louder, and struck out -at her so handsomely that she was fain to give it up. She overcame, with -great discretion, a very angry look that came into her eyes, and laid -down the knife, and, wreathed in smiles, threw him a kiss, and said they -would be better friends to-morrow. She was afraid of attempting to offer -the kiss more practically, as Master Jay's fists were heavy, for fists -of only five years of active training. Nobody but Missy knew why he was -howling, or what he meant by his incoherent demands. - -"Oh, I see," she said, turning back with a smile. "He thinks no one else -should cut his cake. Well, Jay, I'll cut it for you, and be sure you -tell me to-morrow who has got the ring." - -Jay's screams subsided, and in a silence born of expectation, Miss -Rothermel stepped forward and took up the knife. It was inevitable that -the new-comers were taking her measure. And it is pleasant to relate -that, pleased by Jay's loyalty, her face was bright, and almost pretty -at the moment, and she was always graceful and her figure admirable. She -leaned over the table, and cut the cake, and gave Jay his piece, and -with great promptness, withdrew to the door again, leaving Miss Eustace -to take her place, and put the remaining pieces of cake into the greedy -hands held out for them. - -"I don't want you to go away from me," cried Jay above the stillness, -with his mouth full of cake, and his eyes full of tears. - -"Oh, but I must," said Missy, giving him a kiss, "and remember to tell -me who gets the ring. Good-night." - -With a sweeping good-night to all the party, she went out before he -could get up another roar. Mr. Andrews followed her, though she was -half-way down the path before he overtook her. It was nearly August, and -the days were already beginning to show the turn of the season. It was -quite dark, coming from the lighted room. - -"I must beg you won't come any further with me," said Missy, at the -gate. "It is quite light, and I am in the habit of walking all about the -place at night." - -"You must allow me," said Mr. Andrews, not going back at all. - -"I think you are needed to keep the children in order, and I am sure you -ought to go back and see about some dinner for those ladies, since -you've brought them here," said Missy firmly, pulling the gate after -her, and looking at Mr. Andrews from the other side of it. - -"I have no doubt they'll see about it themselves, they know more about -it than I do. And I want to thank you, Miss Rothermel, for remembering -Jay's birthday, for I am ashamed to say I had forgotten it myself. The -poor boy would have had a dismal time if it had not been for you. I'm -always having to thank you, you see." - -"I don't see why you should be at that pains. I didn't do it for--for -anybody but Jay, and he and I can settle our little account between -ourselves, as I told the new cousin just now. Good-night," and before -Mr. Andrews could open the gate, she was swallowed up by the darkness -and the shrubbery, and he was obliged to go home, which he did slowly -and in some perplexity. He could only hope his cousins would not be as -difficult to comprehend as his neighbor was. - -As for Missy, she came in with flushed cheeks and threw herself down on -the seat beside her mother's sofa. - -"Aunt Harriet has not come down? That is the first thing that has gone -right to-day. I've got so much to tell you. Mamma, they've come--the new -cousins, I mean--right in the midst of the birthday party, and no dinner -ready for them, and everything about as bad for me as it could be." - -"Now, I suppose you wish you had been contented to stay at home as I -advised you. It _was_ unfortunate. Did Mr. Andrews come with them, and -how did it happen that they were not expected?" - -"Oh, the telegram never was delivered, and they arrived in the last -train, without any carriage to meet them, and trundled down four miles -in the stage, and arrived hungry and tired, to find all the house dark -but the dining-room, and a table full of bonbons and birthday -fripperies, in place of the solid cheer that the solid host delights in. -Jay met them with howls, and kicked the young lady till she could have -cried; but Gabrielle made up in sweetness for the party, ingenuous child -that she is!" - -"I suppose there is no use in asking if you like them: you had made up -your mind on that point long before you saw them!" - -"I hate them. I didn't suppose I could detest any one so much. They are -ready to open the war at once. They haven't even the grace to wait and -see whether I mean to make fight or not. They are bent upon one thing, -making a conquest of the stout Adonis, and securing themselves -permanently in charge of his establishment. They flew upon the children -with kisses before they had seen whether they were oafs or angels; they -opened their batteries on me before they knew whether I was an enemy or -not. The mother assumed the charge of the house before she had been five -minutes in it; the daughter had flattered Mr. Andrews and both the -children _ad nauseam_ before she took her bonnet off. Jay is to be -Mademoiselle's pet, by arrangement, because they have discovered that he -is his father's favorite. Gabrielle falls to Madame's share, and a nice -time may she have of it, petting a green snake. They had heard enough of -me to know I might be dangerous; and they hadn't sense to wait and to -see whether I were or not. It is war to the knife, and now I don't care -how soon they bring on their heaviest guns." - -"Your metaphor is a little mixed, my dear; I am afraid you are not as -cool as could be wished." - -"Ice wouldn't be cool in such a company. You are long past hating any -one, I know, but even you would have had some difficulty in keeping -yourself charitable if you had heard that young woman's oily insolence -to me. She is sure we shall be such friends, for she too is -unconventional and fond of improprieties. _She_ would think it a fine -lark to be free of a gentleman's house while he was away from it; she is -so artless, no one knows what she might not do if she had not dear mamma -to watch her. Gushing young thing; she needs such care. She looks -twenty-five, but I am prepared to celebrate her eighteenth birthday -before the summer passes. I heard her telling Jay to guess how many -candles she would have to get for her cake. I am afraid he said more -than she thought complimentary, for she changed the subject very -quickly, and told him that she had some candy for him in her trunk. He -had just had a surfeit of candy, and he told her, to my delight, he -didn't want her candy, that he had plenty of his own. Wasn't it nice of -him? That's what I call a discriminating child, mamma. It isn't every -boy of five who knows a possible stepmother when he sees her. I am proud -of Jay. I wish I were as confident of his father's discretion. Poor man, -how he will be cajoled! How he will learn to reverence the opinion of -Mrs. Eustace, how he will dote on the airy graces of the daughter. I -wish you could see them, mamma. They rather affect the attitude of -sisters. If it were not for the superior claims of the daughter, I am -sure the mother is capable of aspiring to the post herself. I should not -wonder if it were left an open question with them, which one of them -should have him. Mrs. Eustace certainly is young-looking, but she is -stout. The daughter is ridiculously like her; you seem to jump over -twenty years as you look from one to the other; the same figure, but a -little stouter, the same hair, but a little thinner, the same eyes, but -gone a little deeper in, the same complexion, but a little thickened, -the same smile, but a little more effort in getting it to come. They are -about the same height, and they wreathe their arms about each other, and -smile back and forward, and pose and prattle like a vaudeville." - -"Really, my dear, you made good use of your time. How many minutes were -you in their company, I should like to know?" - -"They arrived about twenty minutes before eight,--it is now ten minutes -past. That is just how long I have known them." - -"Well, dear, for half an hour, I think you are rather venomous. But -though I don't take your judgment of them altogether, I wish they hadn't -seen fit to accept Mr. Andrews' invitation, or that Mr. Andrews hadn't -seen fit to offer them an invitation. Don't let it all bother you, -Missy. It has been rather a muddle from the beginning. I think you'll -have to make up your mind to let Jay go, though it will be pretty hard." - -"Hard!" cried Missy, bitterly. "But of course, I've made up my mind to -it. I went through it all that evening on the lawn, when Mr. Andrews -told us that they were to come. It is but with one object that he -brought them, it will have but one end." - -"I don't believe that he brought them with this object, but I -acknowledge that it may possibly end in giving the poor little fellow a -stepmother. I am afraid he is the sort of man that is easily taken in." - -Missy's face expressed scorn. - -"Yes, he is just that sort of man, and if he didn't drag poor Jay in -with him, I should say I was glad he had got the fate that he deserved." - -"Hardly that, Missy. He has always been very nice to you, and I can't -think why you feel so towards him. But I've always felt it was a mistake -for people to garner up their hearts in other people's children, and -I've wished, from the beginning, that you cared less for the boy. Give -it up now, dear, and make up your mind to interest yourself in other -things." - -"That's very easy to say. I've made up my mind so a hundred times in the -last week, but it doesn't stay made up, and I shall go on caring for him -till he's taken away from me, and a good while after, I'm afraid." - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -THE HONEYED COUSINS. - - -At the end of two weeks, Missy's opinion of the new comers had suffered -no change, and her mother's had not improved. Miss Rothermel, after she -had seen them drive out one day, took occasion to go to the house and -leave Mrs. and Miss Varian's cards, and her own. This visit had been -very promptly returned by the two ladies, whom Missy had not been as -happy in escaping in her own house, as in theirs. Mrs. Varian also saw -them; they were effusive, cordial to suffocation, adroit; they had -evidently changed their minds about the war, and meant to know the -ground better before they engaged the enemy. She found them clever and -amusing; they had traveled a good deal, and seen much of the world. They -were also superficially cultivated, and were familiar with some of the -outposts of art and literature. They had studied and read just enough to -make them glib, and they had tact enough not to go beyond their depth. -Many a deep and quiet student had been abashed before the confident -facility of the pretty Flora in the ateliers where she had studied -abroad; and at home, it is needless to say she overwhelmed her -cotemporaries with her advantages and her successes. What she could not -decently relate, herself, of these and of her social triumphs, her -mother related for her. The daughter, in return, told of her mother's -wonderful abilities and influence; of the Countess This's friendship for -her, the Lady That's indebtedness; there was nothing wanting to fill up -the picture. They did not spare details; in fact, after awhile, the -details became a great bore, though at first they amused everybody, -whether everybody believed in them or not. In short, they were not first -class artists in puff, only clever amateurs; but in a country where this -art is in its infancy, they imposed upon a good many. - -Missy often had occasion to wonder whether Mr. Andrews was imposed upon -or not; he of course might want to marry his cousin, without believing -that so many other people had wanted to. But she longed to know whether -he saw through their palpable little feminine schemes, whether he knew -them for the cheats they were, and was just going into it because he was -fascinated with the young woman's pretty looks and sprightly ways, and -because the older woman knew how to order him good dinners and keep the -children quiet. - -For, that he was going into it, she would not permit herself to doubt. -He looked rather preoccupied and uncomfortable when she saw him. He had -come over one evening alone, to propose some drive or expedition, in -which she had promptly refused to take part. Another evening, he had -come accompanied by Miss Flora, who had made a jest of her -unconventionality, and had been pert and lively to an astonishing -degree, but who had wished herself away many times before the call was -over, and who had said bitter things to her escort about the stiff -household, on her way home. The evenings at the beach gate were at an -end; the distance between the two houses had grown into a chasm. The -children, ah! that was the hardest part, came less and less frequently, -and Jay was as spoiled and changed as Missy, in her greatest -despondency, had imagined. Continued petting and present-giving had -established a certain tie between him and his cousin, and the sight of -Missy always seemed to stir up all the evil in him, or perhaps all the -contradictory good. At all events, he was so palpably bad with her, that -he gave a text that Mrs. Eustace was not slack in preaching on--to wit, -her pernicious influence upon him. Mr. Andrews was a silent man; he did -not say amen to any of these comminations, neither did he contradict -them. - -The chasm between the two houses hourly grew in breadth. Miss Rothermel -had never called after the first. All the advances had to be made by the -new-comers. Miss Varian had, indeed, been rather troublesome, and had -invited the young lady to read to her, and that had been the excuse for -several morning visits. But even her persistence was not proof against -the coldness of the young lady of the house, and finally she ceased to -come at all. The people in the neighborhood had called upon them, and -they had been invited to whatever was going on, which, though it was not -much, was enough to keep their spirits up. They were quite popular, the -mother was called a charming person, the daughter extremely clever, -playing like an artist, painting like a genius, and with such lovely -manners, too. Of course, every one said Mr. Andrews would marry her, or -break his heart about her. They wondered how Miss Rothermel would take -it, and Miss Flora was not slow to express to everybody to whom she had -a chance to express it, her regret that Miss Rothermel did not seem to -like her, and her innocent wonder what could be the cause. - -"For I am not used to being snubbed," she would say. "I don't know why -it is, but people generally seem to like me. I suppose it's because I'm -good-natured, and don't make any trouble. I know, of course, it's -nothing in me different from other people; it's only that I'm happy and -all that. But Miss Rothermel seems to hate me, actually. She really is -quite rude; and I may say it to you, scarcely lady-like in her treatment -of me. Mamma is so incensed about it, and I think it troubles Mr. -Andrews, who is so kind, and wants our summer here to be without a -cloud. But it isn't worth thinking about. I can't help being happy, and -having a beatific time, even if she isn't pleased about it." - -Sailing parties, and drives, and whist and sketching parties had all -been refused by the severe little lady next door; but at last there came -an invitation which she made up her mind to accept. It was to dinner, -and Mrs. Varian had said it must be done. She was troubled a little at -the attitude in which Missy had placed herself, though she could not -help sympathizing with her in her dislike of the two strangers. - -"Am I fine enough, mamma?" said Missy, presenting herself before her -mother, at seven o'clock, one evening the latter part of August. She -was fine, indeed, in a pale grey dress, with a train that was imposing, -and sleeves to the elbow, with beautiful lace, and an open throat with -lace, and lovely stockings, and the most bewildering little shoes. She -had a string of pearls around her neck, and gloves with no end of -buttons, and a great color on her cheeks, and a deal of light in her -pale eyes. - -"Am I fine enough, mamma?" - -"Fine enough, my dear? you are actually pretty; I wish you did not have -to go away. I should like to look at you all the evening." - -Miss Flora was not able to wear pearls of that magnitude, nor lace of -that value; she dressed strikingly, but of necessity, rather cheaply, -and her cheap finery galled her, in the presence of such elegance. Missy -looked much better than usual; Flora looked much worse, having sailed -with Mr. Andrews all the morning, till she had a red tinge on her nose, -and a swollen look about her eyelids and lips. The wind had been very -strong and the sun very bright, and Miss Flora had forgotten to put on a -veil. She had had a very nice sail, but--it was unfortunate that there -was to be dinner company that evening. Darkness and cold cream would -have put her all right, if she could have taken refuge in them instead -of facing all that light and all those people. - -The mother also was a little fretted at some of the domestic -arrangements. The cook had given warning that morning, and the waitress -was doing her worst; the gardener had insulted her point-blank, and the -grocer and the butcher hadn't kept their word. Mr. Andrews liked a good -dinner and no bother; it was but too probable that he wouldn't have the -one to-day, and would have the other to-morrow, when the servants came -to him with their grievances. When to this was added the inflamed state -of Flora's complexion, she felt as if her cup were full, and her eyes -were spiteful as they dwelt on Missy, though her smiles were bountiful. - -Mr. Andrews was silent, after he had spoken to Missy on her arrival, and -they all stood about the room aimlessly, before dinner was ready. If -Mrs. Eustace had stood in a nearer relation to him, what a sharp little -shot he would have had in his ear for not talking to his guests! He had -been talking, quite respectably, for him, to one of the Miss Olors, when -Miss Rothermel came in. Since that occurrence he had been silent, and -Flora had had to speak to him twice before he could be made even to look -at her. This gave a sharp little ring to the young lady's laugh, but he -did not remark it, probably. - -When dinner was announced, he went straight to Miss Rothermel and -offered his arm. But Mrs. Eustace pressed forward and told him he had -forgotten, and that he was to take Miss Olor in. She laughed and told -Miss Rothermel she hoped she would excuse him; he was the most absent of -men. - -"Dear Mr. Andrews," she said, "never remembers the claim of young girls; -Flora and Lily Olor sat by themselves all last evening while he -entertained Mrs. Eve and her sister. Duty is always first." - -"Oh, then I am duty?" murmured Missy, drawing back, hardly knowing what -she said. Mr. Andrews stood speechless with an awkwardness worthy of a -younger man, waiting to know whom he was to take if he was not to take -Miss Rothermel. - -"I don't mean, dear Miss Rothermel," she cried, "that it wouldn't be a -pleasure to take you. We all know nobody can talk half so well or knows -half so much. But Dr. Rogers is to have that pleasure, and Miss Lily -falls to Mr. Andrews' share. You know, dear Mr. Andrews, we talked it -all over this morning, but you are so forgetful." - -Mr. Andrews said to himself, "We didn't do anything of the kind;" but it -wasn't exactly the thing to say aloud, and he was obliged to content -himself with taking pretty Miss Olor and seeing Miss Rothermel made over -to the doctor, who had already diffused an odor of paregoric and rhubarb -through the room. - -Now the doctor was not a man generally invited out to dinner at -Yellowcoats. He was underbred and elderly, and rather stupid. He did not -expect to be invited, and nobody could have been more surprised than he -to receive this invitation. He was indebted to his middle-agedness for -it, and to his stupidity. Mrs. Eustace thought he would be a charming -neighbor for Miss Rothermel, and the fact that he was a widower made it -a beautiful satire. - -The clergyman of the parish took in Mrs. Eustace to dinner; next to him -came Missy, and then the doctor. Opposite, were a mamma and a papa of -the young people at the other end of the table--a mamma, that is, of -one, and a papa of another. At Mr. Andrews' end of the table they were -all young and vivacious: two young Olors, two young men from town, and -Miss Flora, who was youth itself. They were very vivacious--a thought -too much so, for beings who were out of school. They laughed and talked -about things which seemed to have grown up during their mushroom summer -intimacy. Nobody could have seen any thing to laugh at in what they -laughed about; their manners put every one else outside. Mr. Andrews -seemed to be within the circle; he had heard the jokes so often, he -seemed to understand them, and though it was possible that he was bored, -he recovered himself sufficiently to be civil. Mrs. Eustace's end of the -table was a notable contrast, as it was meant to be. She had been -obliged to ask Missy (for whom in fact the dinner was given), but she -had planned to make her as uncomfortable as possible. - -The reverend gentleman was not a conversationalist, the medical one was -heavier than lead. The mamma and papa were solid and undertook their -dinner materially. Mrs. Eustace made talk diligently. She questioned the -clergyman about his Sunday school, the doctor about his patients, she -appealed to Miss Rothermel and the mamma opposite about subjects of -domestic interest. She treated Missy as the cotemporary of herself and -this mamma; she spoke in extenuation of the "young people's" -shortcomings at the other end of the table; she begged these two mature -ladies not to tell anybody in Yellowcoats what a noisy set they were. -Dear Mr. Andrews, she said, enjoyed it so much. It was such a boon to -him to have a cheerful home. He was like another man; only that morning -he had told her he had not realized what a miserable life he had been -leading till they came. And the children, poor neglected darlings, she -could not bear to think of what they had had to endure for the past few -months. - -"I have dismissed their nurse," here she turned to the mamma. "I have -found her a most untrusty person. She goes to-morrow. I have been so -fortunate in securing a servant I have had at different times for -several years. She is a capable, uncompromising creature, and admirable -in the government of children. But here I am running on about the -children; I beg you will excuse me, I know it isn't table-talk. Dear -Miss Rothermel, tell me about your aunt's rheumatism." - -The blow about Eliza's going away had been almost too much for Missy's -fortitude. Mrs. Eustace looked at her critically, while she waited for -the report of Miss Varian's rheumatism. - -"I am afraid that isn't table-talk either," she managed to say; but at -the moment the darlings in question came into the room, and all eyes -were turned to them. Flora opened her arms for Jay to spring into, which -he did with considerable roughness. Gabrielle sidled up to Mrs. Eustace, -who embraced her with a warmth most beautiful to see, and made a place -for her beside her, for dessert was on the table. The children had left -off their mourning, and Gabrielle was braw with sashes and trinkets. As -soon as Jay caught sight of Missy, he began to fret; not to go to her, -but she evidently made him unhappy, and he kept looking at her -furtively, and dashing about the glasses and making plunges for things -out of his reach, and acting as the worst kind of a story-book boy acts, -who is held up as a warning. Flora kept her temper admirably, and bore -his kicks and pushes with a beaming sweetness. He also tore her lace, -which, though cheap, was her own, and possibly her all. - -"He always acts so badly when Miss Rothermel is near," she said, sotto -voce, to her neighbors. "I don't know what it is. I suppose sensitively -organized children feel the influence of temperament, don't you suppose -they do? And really, don't laugh, but that's just the way Miss Rothermel -always makes _me_ feel--restless and fretful, and as if I'd like to -break things, and maybe kick somebody." - -This made them all laugh, even Mr. Andrews, who turned such an admiring, -smiling gaze upon the sunburned Flora, as to fill her with genuine -courage. - -"Dear Jay," she said, caressing him, "they're laughing at me." - -"They ain't," said Jay, loud enough for all the table to hear, "they're -laughing at Missy, and you made 'em." - -"O, fie," cried Mrs. Eustace, half frightened and half pleased. "Your -Flo never did anything so naughty. Little boys sometimes misunderstand." - -Missy felt as if she wanted to cry; it was such an enemy's country she -was in. She was generally quite ready to defend herself, but this time -she had not a word to say; her eyes fell, and her sensitive face showed -her pain. Everybody tried not to look at her, but did look at her, of -course, and then they tried to talk of other things so diligently as to -be apparent. The dinner was wretched after this; a sort of damp crept -over every one, even in the youth's department, as Flora called their -end of the table. Mr. Andrews never said a word, good or bad, to any -one, and that is not a convivial example for a host to set. The dinner -had not been a very good one, although pretentious, and Mrs. Eustace had -secret stings of apprehension from his silence. She did not know -whether it arose from annoyance about the disrespect to Missy, or from -disapprobation of the ducks, which were dried up and skinny, and one -could fancy had a taste of smoke. The dessert was tame, and the coffee -tepid. Contrasted with the perfection of the ménage next door, it was a -very shabby dinner, and Mrs. Eustace felt really vicious when she -watched Miss Rothermel, scarcely attempting to taste the successive -failures set before her. But if the truth were known, it was not -contempt for the failures, but real inability to eat. She had been -galled and wounded beyond her power to show fight; she only asked to get -out of it all, and to be let alone. Even Mrs. Eustace saw she had -perhaps gone too far, as she heard the quiver in Missy's voice, when -called upon to answer some question at a time that everyone was -listening. Mr. Andrews might think she had as much transcended her part -in insulting his guest, as she had fallen below it in not preparing him -a good dinner; she telegraphed to Flora to discontinue. Flora, in alarm, -discontinued, but the ship did not right itself. The mamma and the papa -could not recover themselves, the doctors of medicine and theology were -helpless in the emergency, the young people were in confusion, Mr. -Andrews was struck speechless; it was a total wreck. - -The ladies got into the parlor somehow--the gentleman got through their -smoking somehow. When they met there afterward, it was to find a very -silent party; the young ladies were yawning and declaring themselves -worn out with the sailing party of the morning. Missy was sitting in a -chair by the window, her face away from the rest of the party. Jay was -standing in a chair beside her, pulling at the drapery of the window, -and talking in a very big-boy tone, but in reality very much comforted -by being with her. She had one hand stretched up to take hold of his -skirt, for he was rather in danger of tumbling, notwithstanding his -grand talk. Missy understood him, and was satisfied of his affection. -Mr. Andrews walked straight up to her, not noticing anybody else as he -came into the room. She felt herself color fiercely before she turned -her face around, for she knew that he was coming. - -"Have you and Jay made friends?" he said, unfortunately. - -"I did not know we had quarreled," she returned. She would have resented -anything he said, not having forgotten his approving glance at Flora, -when she made them all laugh at her. - -"I am awfully sorry," began Mr. Andrews, in a low tone, looking at the -carpet. But Missy didn't permit him to finish the sentence. - -"Oh, Mr. Andrews, that is such an old story. You are always being -awfully sorry, but it never prevents things happening. I think the only -way is not to give them a chance to happen. I want to go home now, if -you will see if my maid is come." - -Mr. Andrews went to see if the maid had come. She had, and was having a -beautiful time in the kitchen with the servants. What Mr. Andrews was -thinking of when he came back into the parlor it was difficult to guess -from his face. He might have been angry, he might have been bored, he -might have been wounded. He certainly wasn't in a good humor. He merely -said to Miss Rothermel that her servant was in the hall, and then stood -aside as she moved away, only bowing as she said good-night, and, with a -kiss to Jay, and as few words as possible to the others, passed out of -the room. - -"The only way is not to give such things a chance to happen," she said -to herself, all in a quiver, as she went out into the night, and the -door shut behind her. She heard a not very suppressed noise of laughter -in the parlor, as she passed the windows going off the piazza. She had -crossed that threshold for the last, last time, she said to herself. And -this time she kept her resolution. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -MRS. HAZARD SMATTER. - - -The two houses were now at open war, at least the female part of them. -Jay was forbidden, without any secresy, to go into his neighbor's -grounds, Gabrielle was in an ecstasy of gossip all the while, and -brought Flora news, true and false, continually. She spied through the -hedge, and found the new servants and her high-minded cousins ready to -receive a report of all she discovered, _i.e._, if it were reported in a -whisper. Mr. Andrews seemed to have given up all attempts to reconcile -the contending parties. He never went to the Varians' now, nor made any -effort to exchange neighborly courtesies. - -Missy was very bitter and unhappy, about these days. She knew what all -Yellowcoats was saying about Mr. Andrews and his cousin, for they said -that to her openly. And she surmised what they did not say openly to -her, to wit: that the cause of her own unhappy looks was her -disappointment in the matter. How can one help unhappy looks? One can -help unhappy words; one can do all sorts of things that are meant to -mean happy acts, but how to keep the cloud off one's face at all hours -and moments, is an art yet in the bowels of time. Missy knew she looked -unhappy, and she knew she could not dissemble it. She knew, by this -time, that she was jealous, and jealous not only in the matter of Jay. -She knew that, deride him as she might, the silent widower was an object -of interest to her. She did not yet acknowledge to herself that she -cared for him, but she did acknowledge that it was important to her that -he cared for her, that he gave her a certain sort of admiration. Alas! -she felt a doubt now whether he gave her even a small degree of respect. -For who can respect a jealous woman? And she had been jealous, even -before she saw her rival, or knew more of her than that she might be her -rival. - -There is nothing kills self-respect like jealousy. Missy hated and -despised herself from the moment that she knew she was jealous. She felt -herself no longer mistress of her words and actions. Begin the morning -with the best resolutions in the world, before noon she would have said -or done something that upset them all. She had such evil thoughts of -others, such an eating, burning discontent with herself. She remembered -her childish days, when her jealousy of her stepfather made her a -little fiend. "I was brought up on it, I learned it with my -alphabet,--it is not my fault, it is my fate," she said to herself with -bitterness. - -It was very fortunate perhaps, as she could dissemble so ill, that the -two houses saw so little of each other. Flora was not of a jealous -nature, and it seemed as if she had very little to be jealous about. She -was having it all her own way apparently, and she longed to flaunt her -triumphs in her rival's face. That was the one thing that she felt she -was not succeeding in. She could not be sure Missy knew it, every time -she went out to drive with Mr. Andrews, and that took away half the -pleasure. Miss Rothermel kept herself so much out of reach of criticism -it was unsatisfactory. Pure speculation grew tiresome. It was the -longing of Flora's heart to have another meeting, and to display Mr. -Andrews, but Missy baulked her. At church it could have been -accomplished, but most unhappily Mr. Andrews wouldn't go to church (at -least with them). His amiable and accomplished cousins could make him do -a good deal, but they couldn't make him do that. Neither could they make -him talk about his neighbors nor laugh at any of their sarcasms. - -About this time, Miss Varian had a friend to stay with her. Mrs. Varian -was always rather shy of her sister's friends; they were apt to be -unusual people. This one, however, Mrs. Varian remembered in her youth, -and had no doubt would be of an unobjectionable kind. Mrs. Hazard -Smatter had been an inoffensive New York girl, not considered to carry -very heavy guns, but good-looking and good-natured. That was the last -Miss Varian knew of her. In the revolution of years she turned up again, -now a middle-aged woman, with feeble gray hair, and misgivings about -revealed religion. She had married a Bostonian, and that had been too -much for her. She despised her former condition so much as not to desire -to allude to it. She was filled with lofty aspirations and cultivated -herself. There was nothing that she did not look into, though it was -doubtful whether she saw very much when she did look. Having begun -rather late, she had to hurry a good deal to know all that was to be -known about History, Science, Art, Theology, and Literature; and as -these rivers of human thought are continually flowing on, and -occasionally altering their channels, it was perhaps excusable that -while she kept up, she sometimes lost her breath, and was a little -unintelligible. If it had only been one river, but there was such a lot -of them, and of course a person of culture can't ignore even a little -boiling spring that has just burst out. There's no knowing what it may -develop into; one must watch its course, and not let it get ahead of -one. Taking notes on the universe is hard work, and Mrs. Hazard Smatter -felt that her gray hair was so to be accounted for. It was her one -feminine weakness, the one remnant of her pre-cultured state, that led -her to call it premature. - -What with dress reform, and want of taste, she was not a woman to -reproach with personal vanity. She was rather a little person. She had -pale blue eyes somewhat prominent; a high forehead, which retreated, and -a small chin, which did, too. She attributed these defects to her place -of nativity, and drew many inferences about the habits and mental -peculiarities of her ancestors, which wouldn't have pleased them if -they'd known about it. She had a very candid mind, and of course no -family pride, and it was quite surprising to hear her talk on this -subject. - -Mrs. Varian was quite frightened the first evening. Miss Harriet was -delighted. She always had liked the dangerous edge of things, and had -felt herself defrauded in being forced to live among such conventional -people as her sister's friends. Mrs. Smatter was so unexpectedly changed -from the commonplace comrade of her youth, that she could not be -thankful enough that she had sent for her. The first evening they only -got through Inherited Traits, the History of Modern Thought, the -Subjection of Women, and a few other light and airy themes, which were -treated, of course, exhaustively. To Miss Varian, it was a foretaste of -rich treats in store. - -"Mamma," cried Missy, when she was alone with Mrs. Varian, "what kind of -creature have we got hold of?" - -"I can't classify her," said her mother. "But I am afraid it will be -very hard to use hospitality without grudging towards a woman who talks -so about her grandfather, and who knows so much more than we do about -the sacerdotal systems of the prehistoric races." - -"I'd much rather she'd talk of things I don't understand, than of things -I do. How long do you suppose she is going to stay?" - -"I am afraid Harriet will never be willing to let her go, she seems so -charmed with her." - -"Don't you think she might be persuaded to take Aunt Harriet home to -Boston with her, to live? Fancy, a few minds to tea two or three times a -week, and on the alternate nights, lectures, and clubs, and classes. It -is just what Aunt Harriet needs, indeed it is. See if you can't lead up -to it, mamma." - -The next morning, when Missy passed the guest's room, the door of which -stood open, she was surprised to see a complete revolution in the -furniture. The rugs had all been taken away, the curtains, unhooked and -folded up, were lying on a chair, the sofa and two upholstered chairs -were rolled away into the adjoining chamber. The bed, pushed out into -the room, stood in a most awkward attitude at right angles with nothing. -On the pillow was pinned a pocket compass, which indicated due north. -Goneril, who was putting the room in order, with set teeth, explained -that it was by the lady's orders, who had instructed her that her bed -must always stand at exactly that angle, on account of the electric -currents. - -"I take it," said the woman, "she doesn't like to ride backwards." - -The rugs were liable to contain disease germs, as well as the -upholstered furniture, and she had intimated that she would like the -walls rubbed down with carbolic once or twice a week. - -"I told her," snapped Goneril, "that we weren't a hospital, no more were -we a hotel." - -It was well that the duster was not made of anything sterner than -feathers, or the delicate ornaments of the dressing-table would have had -a hard time of it, for she brushed with increased vehemence as she got -worked up in talking. "She told me she would have preferred straw for -her bed, but it was no matter now, as it was all made up. Straw was the -only thing for beds, she said, and to be changed once a week. I'm sorry -I didn't take her at her word. I know she enjoys the springs and the -new mattress, and if it hadn't been for the trouble, I'd have given her -her fill of straw, and lumpy straw at that. I told her I was used to -clean and decent Christian folks, who didn't need to have their beds -burned once a week, and who didn't carry diseases about with them, and -who could get along without carbolic. And as to carrying up water enough -to flush a sewer every night and morning, I wouldn't do it for her nor -any other woman, clean or dirty. And as to being called up at twelve -o'clock at night to look at the thermometer and to close the window an -inch and a quarter, and to spread a blanket over her feet to keep the -temperature of her body from going a little bit too low--and then being -called up at five to look again, and to take the blanket off, and to see -that it didn't get a little too high,--it's just a trifle more than I -can bear. I hope the new woman will like it, when she comes. _I'm_ going -next week, Wednesday, and that's the end of it." - -"I am ashamed of you, Goneril; you're not going to do anything of the -sort. Don't upset Miss Varian by talking so to her. Let her have a -little peace, if she likes Mrs. Smatter." - -"I'm the one to talk about being upset. It's bad enough to wait on an -old vixen like Miss Varian, but when it comes to waiting on all her -company, and when her company are fools and idiots, I say it's time to -go. I've put up with a good deal in this house. I've come down in the -world, but that's no reason I should put up with everything. It's one -thing to say you'll be obliging and sleep in a room that's handy, so you -could be called if anything extraordinary happened, where the person -you're looking after is afflicted of Providence. But it's another thing -to be broke of your rest two nights running to keep count of the -thermometer over a well woman who hasn't sense enough to know when she's -hot and when she's cold. It's bad enough to be Help anyhow, but it ain't -worth while to be walked over. I can stand folks that's got some sense, -even if they've got some temper. But people like this, jumbling up -almanacs and doctors' books, and free thinkin' tracts; them I can't -stand, and what's more, I won't stand, and there's an end of it." - -There wouldn't have been an end of it, though, if Miss Rothermel had not -got up and walked away. There is a limit beyond which even American -Farmers' Daughters must not be permitted to go, and Goneril had -certainly reached that limit, and as she would have talked on for an -hour in steadily increasing vehemence, there was nothing but for Missy -to go away, with silent disapprobation, and wish the visitor well out of -the house. The visitor she found at the breakfast-table, blandly -stirring her weak tea, and waiting for her oatmeal to have an additional -fifteen minutes on the fire. The cook had been called in and -acknowledged that the oatmeal had only had two hours of cooking. Mrs. -Smatter had explained, on exact scientific principles, the necessity of -boiling oatmeal two hours and thirty-five minutes, and the wheels of -breakfast stood still while this was being accomplished. The cook was in -a rage, for oatmeal was one of her strong points, and she always boiled -it two hours. Miss Varian was growing distrustful of everything. Mrs. -Smatter had raised her suspicions about the adulteration of all the food -on the table. Even the water, she found, wasn't filtered with the proper -filter, and there was salt enough in the potatoes to destroy the -tissues of a whole household. She desired the waitress to have a pitcher -of water boiled for her, and then iced; and she would be glad if she -would ask the grocer where he got his salt. - -By dinner time Miss Varian's usual good appetite was destroyed; she was -so engaged in speculating about the assimilation of her food, that she -had a bad indigestion. When evening came, she was so fretful she was -almost inclined to quarrel with her new-found friend. As they sat around -the lamp, Mrs. Smatter became a little restless because the conversation -showed a tendency to degenerate into domestic or commonplace channels; -she strove to buoy it up with æsthetic, speculative, scientific -bladders, as the case might be. Missy pricked one or two of these, by -asking some question which wasn't in Mrs. Smatter's catechism; but, -nothing daunted, she would inflate another, and go sailing on to the -admiration of her hearers. - -A letter had come from St. John, in which he gave some hope that he -might return in the autumn, though he entered into no explanation of the -reason for such a change of plan. Missy was all curiosity, and her -mother was all solicitude, but they naturally did not talk much to each -other about it, and of course did not wish it alluded to in Mrs. -Smatter's presence. Miss Varian, however, asked questions, and brought -the subject forward with persistence. It seemed to Miss Rothermel -profanation to have her brother's name spoken by this woman. What was -her dismay to hear Mrs. Smatter say, settling herself into a speculative -attitude: - -"I hear, Mrs. Varian, that your son is in one of those organizations -they call brotherhoods. I should like very much, if you don't mind, if -you would tell me something about his youth, and how you brought him up, -and what traces you saw of this tendency, and how you account for it." - -"I don't understand," faltered Mrs. Varian. "Do you mean--his -education--or--or--" - -"I mean," said Mrs. Smatter, "was he physically strong, and properly -developed, and did you attend to his diet? I should have thought oatmeal -and fish and phosphates might have counteracted this tendency; that is, -of course, if you could have anticipated it." - -"He has always been in very fine health," said the mother. - -"Indeed! That seems inexplicable. I have always felt these things could -be accounted for, if one were inclined to look into it. It _must_ be the -result of something abnormal, you know. If we could look into the -matter, I am sure we should find the monastic idea had a physical -basis." - -"Indeed!" said Miss Varian, tartly. "Well, I shouldn't have thought it -had anything of the kind. No more than that the culinary idea had a -spiritual basis." - -"I have always thought," remarked Mrs. Smatter, ignoring the -interruption, "that science would do well to study individual cases of -this kind, to ascertain the cause of the mental bias. It would be useful -to know the reason of the imperfect development of the brain, for -instance, of this young man, who represents a class becoming, I am told, -quite numerous. Do you remember, dear Mrs. Varian, any accident in -childhood--any fall?" - -"I really think you've got beyond your depth," cried Miss Varian, under -the spur of indigestion and family feeling. "If I were you I would talk -about things I understood a little. St. John Varian isn't down in your -books, my dear. You can't take him in any more than you can the planet -Jupiter, and you'd better not try." - -"Indeed," said Mrs. Smatter, a little uneasy. "Is he so very remarkable -an entity?" - -"I don't know anything about his entity, but he has a good brain of his -own, if you want to know that, and he didn't fall down stairs when he -was a child, any more than St. Charles Borromeo, or St. Francis Xavier, -or Lacordaire did. But then, perhaps you think they did, if it were only -looked into. Fancy what a procession of them, bumping down the stairs of -time, or tumbling out of trees of knowledge that they'd been forbidden -to climb up." - -Missy laughed, a little hysterically, and that irritated Miss Varian, -whose indigestion was really very bad, and who was naturally opposed to -Missy, and who was ashamed to find herself tackling her guest in this -way and upholding the unpardonable step of St. John in the hearing of -his mother, who was to blame for it. It was exasperating, and she didn't -know whom to hit, or rather, whom not to hit, she was so out of patience -with everybody. - -"If you'd give up the phosphates," she said, "and inquire into the way -he was brought up, you might get more satisfaction. How he was drilled -and drilled and made to read saints' lives, and told legends of the -martyrs when he was going to bed, and made to believe that all that was -nice and jolly in life was to be given up almost before you got it, and -that all the sins in the decalogue were to be confessed, almost before -you'd committed them; if you'd look into _this_, you might get a little -light upon your subject." - -"Ah!" said Mrs. Smatter, interested, "perhaps that might account--" - -"Aunt Harriet," cried Missy, getting up, and letting her work fall on -the floor--spools, thimble and scissors dispersing themselves in -corners--"Aunt Harriet, there is a limit--" - -"A limit to what? Superstition and priest-craft--maudlin sentiment and -enervating influence--" - -"Mamma, won't you go up stairs with me?" cried Missy, and there was no -time given Mrs. Smatter for further speculation, or Miss Varian for -further aggression. After the door closed behind them, Miss Varian's -wrath rose against her inquisitive friend, and family feeling carried -the day. - -"You'd better drop the subject of St. John, permanently," she said with -decision. - -And Mrs. Smatter accommodatingly offered to read her a treatise on the -Artistic Dualism of the Renaissance, with which the evening closed. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -A GARDEN PARTY. - - -The summer had come to its end, to its very last day. Mrs. Hazard -Smatter still lingered at Yellowcoats, notwithstanding the defective -sanitary arrangements and the absence of stimulating mental contact. -Miss Varian had felt considerable mortification that her friend should -know she lived in such an atmosphere, and was always speaking of it -apologetically and as temporarily stagnant. She had however given Mrs. -Varian no rest till she had consented to see that it was her duty to -provide some social entertainment for Mrs. Smatter, something, of -course, inadequate to the mental needs of that lady, but something that -would show her that she was still in the midst of civilized life. A lady -who used familiarly the names that Mrs. Smatter did, could not of course -be dazzled by the doctor or the rector. But she could be made to see -that they had a good many young women who dressed well and several men -who were good style. And there were two painters, and a stray architect -or so, and a composer, staying in the place. These were not much, to -make a show against the minds to which Mrs. Smatter was accustomed, but -they were better than nothing. Therefore, Mrs. Varian must have at least -two headaches, and Missy at least three days' work writing her -invitations and getting up her garden party. - -Now, a garden party is a charming thing, when everything is favorable. -All the neighborhood was delighted at the prospect, for invitations to -garden parties were not rife in Yellowcoats, and the Varians' place was -unusually nice for such a thing. - -The weather had been close and warm for several days, and the deep shade -of the trees upon the lawn and the cooling ripple of the water beyond -had entered into the picture everyone had drawn of the projected garden -party. But on the morning of that day, a cold east wind set in, and -dashes of rain fell about noon--then the sky grew leaden from having -been gusty and mottled, and though no more rain fell, the wind was as -raw as November, and the chill was something that ate to one's very -marrow. A garden party! the very idea became grotesque. A warming-pan -party, a chimney-corner party, a range, a furnace-party, would all have -been more to the purpose. - -But people came, and shivered and looked blue. They huddled together in -the house, where fires were lighted, and gazed out of windows at the -cold water and the dreary lawn. A few daring spirits braved the blast, -and went out to play lawn-tennis and a little feeble archery. But their -courage did not keep them long at it in gauze de Chambery and India -mull. One by one they dropped away and came shaking back into the house. - -Mrs. Smatter was quite above being affected by the weather. She expected -to hold high carnival with the painters and the architect, who were of -course presented to her at once. The composer, a grim, dark man, looking -like a Mexican cut-throat, held off. He preferred young women, and did -not care to talk about Wagner out of office hours. The architect was a -mild young person, not at all used to society, and he very soon broke -down. Mrs. Smatter was a little agitated by this, and did not -discriminate between her painters; she talked about the surface muscles -to the landscape man, and about cloud effects to the figure painter. -This confused everybody, and they severally bowed themselves away as -soon as they could, and Mrs. Smatter ever after spoke with great -contempt of the culture of Yellowcoats. She was obliged to content -herself with the doctor and the rector, who did not dare to go away -while she was asking them questions and giving them information, which -she never ceased doing till the entertainment ended. - -As to Missy, the whole thing was such a vexation and disappointment she -scarcely knew how to bear it. The bright fires and the flowers, and the -well-ordered entertainment redeemed it somewhat, but it remained a -burlesque upon a garden party, and would never be what it was meant to -be. The people from next door had come--Miss Flora in a new gown, and -the mother all beaming in a bonnet crowned with buttercups; Mr. Andrews -very silent and a trifle awkward. There were too many people to make it -necessary to say many words to them when they came in, and they were -presently scattered among the crowd. - -An hour later, Missy, with her cheeks flushed from the talking and the -warm rooms, went out of the summer parlor and across the lawn to a pair -of young people who had been silly enough to stay there till there was -danger of their being made ill by the cold. She had promised an anxious -mamma by the fire to see that her daughter had a shawl or came in, and -had just delivered the message and the shawl and turned away from the -obdurate little idiot, who would not give up her flirtation even to -escape pneumonia, when she saw that Mr. Andrews had followed her. - -"It is a very unlucky day for my garden party," she said, as he joined -her. "The sky and the water like ink, and a wind that actually howls." - -"I wanted to speak to you a moment," he said, as if he had not noticed -what she was saying. "Will you take cold here for a moment?" - -"No," she answered, feeling her cheeks burn. - -"This has been an unlucky summer in some ways, Miss Rothermel, but now -it's over; and before we part, I want to say a few words to you." - -"Certainly," said Missy, distantly. "I hope you're not going away soon?" - -"I've taken passage for the 6th, that is a week from to-day, and I don't -know when we shall return--very possibly not for several years." - -There was a pause, while Missy got her voice steady and staggered up -from under the blow. - -"I've been unlucky this summer, as I said, and seem to have managed to -give you offense by everything I did." - -Now, no woman likes to be told she's not sweet-tempered, even if she -knows she is a spitfire, and this nettled Missy sharply, and steadied -her voice considerably. - -"I am sorry," she said, "that you think me so unamiable, but I don't -exactly know why you should think it well to tell me of it." - -"I haven't told you that you were unamiable; I have told you that I -hadn't been able to do the thing that pleased you, though Heaven knows -I've tried hard enough." - -"It's a pity that I'm such a dragon. Poor little Jay, even, is afraid of -me by this time, isn't he?" - -"I don't know about Jay. I'm rather stupid about things, I'm afraid. -Women perplex me very much." - -Missy drew the scarf that she had picked up in the hall as she came out, -about her shoulders, and beat her foot upon the gravel as if she were -cold and a trifle tired of Mr. Andrews' sources of perplexity. - -"What I wanted to say," he went on, "is, that I thank you always for -what you've been to the children." - -"Ah, please," she cried, with a gesture of impatience. - -"And that I shall always regret the misstep that I took in bringing my -cousins here. I did it in the hope that it would make it possible for -you to come familiarly to my house and remove all the annoyances from -which you had suffered. I made a mistake, it has all gone wrong. As I -said before, I don't understand your sex, and it is best, I suppose, -that I should give up trying to. Only there are some things that I -should think you might express to a woman as you would to a man. I -desire to say I am sorry to have given pain and annoyance to you all the -time, as I and mine seem to have been the means of doing. I have great -cause to feel grateful to you, and nothing can ever change the high -esteem in which I hold you." - -"Thank you very much," said Missy; "not even the opinion of the ladies -of your household?" - -Mr. Andrews turned his head away, with a stolid look towards the -lead-colored bay. - -"I don't suppose anything will be gained by discussing them," he said. - -"No, Mr. Andrews, for I don't like them, and you know when women don't -like each other they are apt to be unreasonable." - -Mr. Andrews was silent, and his silence roused a fire of jealousy in his -companion's mind. Why did he not say to her that he despised them, that -he saw through them, that he did not think her prejudice against them in -the least unreasonable? - -"We shall get cold if we stay here any longer I'm afraid," she said, -moving slowly forward up the path. - -Mr. Andrews walked beside her for a moment without speaking, then he -said very deliberately: - -"You have given me much pain, at various times, Miss Rothermel, and a -heavy disappointment, but nothing can ever alter my regard for you. A -man, I suppose, has no right to blame a woman for disliking him; he can -only blame her for misleading him--" - -The path from the beach-gate to the house was too short--too short, ah, -by how much! they were already at the steps. Missy glanced up and saw -more than one eager and curious pair of eyes gazing down upon the -tête-à-tête. It was over, it was ended, and Missy, as in a dream, walked -up the steps and into the chattering groups that stood about the summer -parlor. She knew all now--what she had thrown away, what her folly of -jealousy had cost her. The mists of suspicion and passion rolled away, -and she saw all. Many a woman, younger and older, has seen the same, the -miserable, inevitable sight--jealousy dead, and hope along with it. - -The cold wind had not taken the flush out of her cheeks; she walked -about the parlors and talked to the guests, and, to her own surprise, -knew their names and what they said to her. Since she had gone out upon -the lawn to take the shawl to the foolish virgin there, the world had -undergone a revolution that made her stagger. Such a strong tide had -borne her chance of happiness away from her, already almost out of -sight, she wondered that she could stand firm and watch it go. What a -babble of voices! How wiry and shrill and imbecile the clanging of -tongues! It was all like a dream. The woman whom she had dreaded, -unmasked and harmless walked before her, a trifler among triflers, a -poor rival indeed. The man whom she had lost stood there silent in a -group of flippant talkers, more worthy and more manly now that he was -beyond her reach. What was the use of regretting? No use. What was the -use of anything? No use. - -Miss Rothermel looked uncommonly well, they said to each other driving -home, almost pretty, really, and so young. What could that tête-à-tête -have signified between her and Mr. Andrews? He was evidently out of -spirits. What an odd thing it would be after all if he had really liked -her. There was something queer about it all. Going abroad with his -cousins, however, didn't much look like it. It was a puzzle, and they -gave it up. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -P. P. C. - - -Every day of that week Missy walked about as in a dream, and with a -single thought in her mind. When and how should she meet Mr. Andrews, -and was there any possible hope to be built upon the meeting? A hundred -times, to be more accurate, a thousand times, she went over the scene; -she made her confession, she entreated his pardon, she felt the joy of -perfect understanding and confidence. She met him by the sea--on the -cliffs--in the garden--in the library--at church--by the -roadside--sometimes it was alone--sometimes there were others in the -way. Ah! who does not know what ingenuity fancy has to multiply those -interviews? How between troubled moments of sleep one goes through scene -after scene of the ensnaring drama; underscored, obliterated, blotted, -incessantly altering time and place--but through all walking and -speaking the two, beside whom all other created souls are shadows? Who -does not know the eloquence, the passion, the transport? Who has not -burned with shame at the poor reality; the blundering words, if they -ever come to be spoken; the miserable contradiction of Fate, if the -interview ever comes about? - -There were but six days and nights for Missy to dream and hope about her -reprieve, and she employed them well. She was white and languid-looking -in the morning, but from the first sound of the knocker, the first step -heard upon the walk outside, a spot of color burned in her cheeks, and a -strange glow shone from her light eyes. She was absent-minded, -imperious, impatient. She was living upon a chance, the throw of a dice, -and she couldn't say her prayers. She wanted to be let alone, and she -hated even her mother when she interfered with this desire. - -The six days had worn themselves away to one, uneventful, save for the -blotted score of Missy's dreams. This day must bring some event, some -occurrence, good or bad. It was impossible that Mr. Andrews would go -away and offer such a disrespect to, at all events, her mother, as not -to come and say good-bye. It was a fixed fact in her mind that he would -come. She dressed for it, she waited for it, she counted off the -moments, one by one. Not a motion of wind in the trees missed her ears, -not a carriage rolled along the road, nor a step crossed the lawn that -she did not hear. - -At last, in the afternoon, there came some steps up from the gate. A -group under the trees; for a moment she could not discern them, but -presently she saw he was not with them. There came the two ladies, with -Jay and Gabrielle, Flora and the latter laughing and romping, and -apparently trying to get themselves quieted down before entering the -house of their stiff-necked neighbors. Missy came down stairs to find -them talking with her mother in the parlor. Flora was in brilliant -spirits, the prospect of "dear Europe" again, she said, had quite upset -her. Mrs. Eustace was rather overbearing, and less suave and -conciliatory than usual. She found herself so near "dear Europe" and a -settlement for Flora, that she could afford to be natural for once. She -fastened herself upon Mrs. Varian, and was sufficiently disagreeable to -cause even that languid lady to wish the visit over. Flora, sweet young -thing, stood to her guns manfully till the very last minute, and made -Missy's cheeks burn and her eyes glow. Though she knew she had given her -whatever success she would ever have, and had played into her hand, and -thrown up her own game in a pet, she could not hear her calmly. - -"We are all so eager to get off," she said. "I was telling the Olors -they mustn't think it uncomplimentary to Yellowcoats, though it does -sound so! I have had a _lovely_ time. I never shall forget it! A -beatific summer! And mamma has enjoyed it, too, though she has had a -great deal of care and worry getting things into shape after those -dreadful servants that we found there. But poor Mr. Andrews has had such -a horrid time ever since he took the place that I think he fairly longs -to get away, and never see it again. 'Thank heaven, it's the last day of -it!' he said this morning, poor dear man, with such an emphasis." - -"Papa meant the hall stove," said Gabrielle, in an insinuating little -voice. "Because it smoked so dreadfully." - -This took Flora aback for a moment; she choked as if somebody had hold -of her throat, then, with a sweet smile to Gabrielle, "Very likely he -said it about the hall stove too, dear," she said, and putting her arms -around the engaging child's waist, went on to ask Miss Rothermel if they -meant to spend the winter in the country. - -Miss Rothermel thought it probable, though it was not quite determined. - -"How dreary!" exclaimed Miss Eustace. "It passes me to understand how -you can exist. I suppose, though, one doesn't mind it so much as one -gets--I mean--that is--as mamma says--at my age--" And she stopped with -a pretty naïve embarrassment, which was surprisingly well done. She -recovered from it to say: - -"And Mr. Andrews tells us you are _so_ domestic. He thinks he didn't see -you once all winter long." - -"No," said Missy. "I don't remember seeing him at all, all winter. But -the children came, and Jay was a great pleasure to me." - -"Fancy," cried Flora, "being amused by a child to that extent. I dote on -children, but oh, I dote on other things too. Mr. Andrews thinks he will -settle us at Florence, and if he finds a satisfactory governess, we -shall be free to leave the children, and he will take us to Rome, and -Naples, and there is a talk of Spain. Oh, we spend all our leisure hours -in mapping out excursions. I tell mamma it is like the Arabian Nights. I -have only to wish a thing, and it comes. Mr. Andrews has such a way of -ordering and carrying out what you want, and putting things through. -Don't you think so?" - -"I don't know," said Missy. "I never traveled with him and I can't -judge." - -"Well, I never did either, except on paper, and we've been around the -world that way. But I mean in excursions, picnics, and sailing parties, -and all that. You see he has kept us busy this summer, always planning -something for us. I don't think there ever was anybody so good as -Gabrielle's good papa!" cried the young lady, giving Gabrielle a little -hug and a kiss. - -Gabrielle received this attention in silence, shooting a penetrating -glance across towards Missy. It is probable that this gifted child fully -understood the position of affairs. - -"But it seems dreadful to think of you here all winter," pursued Miss -Eustace. "Nobody is going to stay, as far as I can hear. And I should -think you'd be afraid, only you three ladies, and yours the only house -open anywhere about. It was a sort of protection, last winter, when Mr. -Andrews was here, even if you didn't see him." - -"Yes, it was pleasant to feel the next house was inhabited. But I don't -think there is anything to be afraid of." - -"Suppose you had another fire. What a fright you must have had, Miss -Rothermel! It must have been quite an experience. And so droll. I -suppose there is always a droll side to things, if one has the ability -to see it. Mr. Andrews has told me all about it. Don't you think he has -a strong sense of humor, Miss Rothermel?" - -Miss Flora's face expressed great amusement at the recollection of -something connected with the fire. She repeated her question, which -Missy had not answered. - -"He is so very quiet, one wouldn't suspect him of it, but don't you -think he has a keen sense of the ridiculous?" - -"I have never thought of it," said Missy. "I should rather have said -not. But of course you know him best." - -"I've always threatened to ask you some questions about the fire," she -continued, with merriment in her eyes. "But he made me promise not." - -"Then I don't see that I can help you," Miss Rothermel said. - -"I shall be anxious to know how you get out of the next fire, without -Mr. Andrews here to see to it." - -"I hope we sha'n't have another fire; but if we do, we shall miss Mr. -Andrews, I am sure, for he was most kind in every way. But it is -possible that we may not be alone; my brother may spend the winter with -us; he is coming home this autumn." - -"Your brother? Is it possible? That is the young--the young--monk, that -I've heard them talking of." - -"Yes." - -"Oh, then I am almost sorry that we're going away. I had such a -curiosity to see him. Probably you don't know, but I take the greatest -interest in the Catholic movement." - -"I certainly had not suspected it." - -"Oh, dear Miss Rothermel, how sarcastically you said that. I find Mr. -Andrews was right about that - - "keen, sarcastic levity of tongue, - The stinging of a heart the world hath stung." - -"Papa said that about old Mr. Vanderveer; it wasn't about Missy," put in -Gabrielle again, and this time she didn't get a kiss for it. - -"You are a very pert little girl," said Flora, withdrawing her arm, "and -would be the better for a year or two of boarding-school." - -Gabrielle gave a frightened look at Missy, and dropped her eyes. At this -moment Jay, on the other side of the room, pulled over a stand of -flowers, and in consequence of the noise and alarm, began to cry. Missy -ran to him, and putting her arms around him, whispered that he needn't -care about the flowers, that if he'd give her a dear kiss and be her own -little boy again, she'd like it better than all the flowers in America. -This comforted him, and he consented to dry his eyes, and accompany her -to the dining-room, to look for cake on a shelf which he knew of old. -Missy did not hurry to take him back, and they had an old-time talk, and -a great many kisses and promises. He was quite like himself when he was -away from his cousins. - -"You'll be a big boy when I see you again, Jay," she said, "and you'll -have forgotten all about me when you come back from over the water." - -"Why don't you go 'long with me, then," he said, with a voice rendered -husky by cake. - -"Oh, you've got your cousin Flora. I should think she was enough for any -little boy." - -"She can go to boarding-school with Gabby," said Jay, settling himself -closer into Missy's lap, and taking another piece of cake. Missy laughed -at this disposition of the triumphant young lady in the other room. - -"I don't know what she'd say to that, nor papa either," she added, in a -lower tone. - -"Papa wouldn't mind. Papa's a man, and he can do anything he wants to. -You can come with us, and you can ride my pony that I'm going to have, -and papa can drive you with his horses, like he did that day." - -"Ah, Jay, that would be nice indeed, only I'm afraid Gabby and the two -cousins wouldn't agree to it." - -"I'd make 'em," said Jay. "Papa's going to buy me a little pistol, and -I'd shoot 'em if they didn't." - -In such happy confidences the minutes slipped away. Presently the voice -of Flora called Jay from the hall, and, recalled to civility, Missy took -him by the hand and went back. She found them all standing up, preparing -to take leave. - -"I am sorry to hurry you, Jay, but we must go." - -"Won't you please leave Jay to spend the afternoon with me?" asked -Missy. "I will send him safely back at whatever hour you say." - -"That would be very pleasant," said Mrs. Eustace, "but Mr. Andrews is -going to take us for a drive, and charged us to be back at four o'clock, -to go with him. He has been hurrying all the morning to get through with -everything, so that he might be at liberty to take this drive, which is -a sort of farewell to Yellowcoats. He seemed to want to have the -children go, though I am afraid we shall be rather late getting back for -them. We take the early train in the morning, but I believe everything -is in readiness for the start. You may imagine I have had my hands full, -Mrs. Varian." - -Mrs. Varian expressed her sympathy, the good-byes were said, Missy held -Jay tight in her arms, and kissed his little hands when she loosened -them from her own, and watched the group from the piazza as they walked -away. - -Then he was not coming this afternoon. He preferred a drive with these -ladies, to coming here. No, she did not believe it was any pleasure to -him to go with them. He had his own reasons. She would rest upon the -belief that he would come in the evening. - -The afternoon was fine and clear, with a touch of autumn in the air. -She longed to be alone and to be free--so, telling no one of her -intention, she wandered away along the beach and was gone till after six -o'clock. The short day was ended and dusk had already fallen. She was -little tired by her long walk, but soothed by the solitude, and braced -by the thought of what evening would surely bring her. - -The lamp was newly lighted at one end of the hall, and was burning -dimly. As she passed up the stairs, her eye fell on some small cards on -the dark table near the door. With a sudden misgiving, she went back, -and picking them up, went over to the lamp to read them. They were three -cards of "Mr. James Andrews," with p.p.c. in the corner. - -I don't know exactly what Missy thought or felt when she read them. She -stood a few minutes in a stupid sort of state. Then, the drive had been -a fable, and the hand of fate was against her. The precious opportunity -was lost, while she was wandering aimlessly along the beach, saying over -and over to herself, the words that now never would be spoken. She had -tossed away from her her one chance, as she had tossed pebbles into the -water while she walked that afternoon. She had felt so secure, she had -been so calm. Now all was over, and the days and nights that had been -given to this meeting were days and nights that mocked her when she -thought of them. How she had been cheated! She realized fully that the -chance was gone. She knew that months of separation, just as they were -situated, would have been enough to make a renewal of friendship -impossible, and here were years coming in between them. No, the only -moment that she could have spoken would have been while the -recollection of what he had said to her the other day upon the lawn, was -fresh in both their minds. Perhaps, already, it was too late to revive -any feeling for her; but at least, she could have tried. She hadn't any -pride left. At least, she thought she hadn't, till, in her own room, she -found herself writing to him. Then, when she saw the thing in black and -white, she found she had still a little pride, or perhaps, only a sense -of decency. Here was a man who hadn't talked to her about love, who -hadn't said anything that anybody mightn't have said about an ordinary -friendship. She knew quite well that he meant more, but he hadn't said -more, and by that she must abide. So she tore her letter up; ah, the -misery of it all. She bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, and went -stonily down to tea when the bell rang. When the tea bell rings, if the -death-knell of your happiness hasn't done tolling, you hear it, more's -the marvel. - -The monotonies of Mrs. Smatter and the asperities of Miss Varian for -once roused little opposition. Missy had a fevered sense of oppression -from their presence, but she was too full of other thoughts to heed -them. After tea there was something to be done for her mother, who was -ill from the strain of the afternoon's visitors, and two or three -persons on business had to be attended to. She felt as if she had begun -a dreadful round of heartless work that would last all her life. - -When at last she was free from these occupations she threw a cloak -around her shoulders and went out on the piazza. The night was dark and -still, and as she listened she could hear voices and sounds from the -other house--a door close, a window put down, a call to a dog, the -rattle of his chain. Then she heard the shrill whistle, which she knew -was the summons for the man from the stable, and after a few moments she -heard Mr. Andrews' voice on the piazza. - -With an impulse that she made no attempt to resist, she went down the -steps and ran quickly across the lawn, and, standing behind the gate, -under the heavy shadow of the trees, strained her eyes through the -darkness, and gazed over toward the next house. Mr. Andrews was talking -with the man, who presently went away, and then he walked up and down on -the piazza slowly; it was easy to hear his regular tread upon the -boards, and to see a dark figure cross the lighted windows. That was as -near as he would ever be to her again, perhaps. - -After a few moments he came down the steps, walked slowly along the -path, and stood leaning against the gate. She could see the spark of his -cigar. They were not two hundred feet apart. If she had spoken in her -ordinary tone, he could have heard her; the stillness of the night was -unusual. There was no breeze, no rustle of the leaves overhead; no one -was moving, apparently, at either house--no one passing along the road. -Her heart beat so violently she put both hands over it to smother the -sound. Why should she not speak? It was her last chance, her very last. -If the night had not been so dark, she might have spoken. If the stars -had been shining, or moonlight had made it possible for them to see each -other, if the hour had been earlier, if there had been any issue but -one, from the speaking--if, in fact, it were not what it was, to speak, -she might have spoken. - -The minutes passed--how long, and yet how swift, they were in passing. -She had made no decision in her own mind what to do; she meant to speak, -and yet something in her held her back from speaking. There are some -things we do without thought, they do themselves without any help from -us, and so this thing was done, and a great moment in two lives was -lost--or gained perhaps, who knows? She stood spell-bound as she saw the -tiny spark of light waver, then, tossed away, drop down and go out in -the damp grass. Then she heard him turn and go slowly towards the -house--always slowly, she could have spoken a hundred times before he -reached the piazza steps. Then he took a turn or two up and down the -piazza, and then, opening the front door, went in, shutting it behind -him. - -It was not till that door shut, that Missy realized what had come to -pass in her life, and what she had done, or left undone. A great -blankness and dreariness settled down upon her with an instant pall. She -did not blame herself--she could not have spoken, no woman of her make -could have spoken. She did not blame herself, but she blamed her fate, -that put her where she stood, that made her as she was. An angry -rebellion slowly awoke within her. It is safer to blame yourself than to -blame fate. Poor Missy took the unsafest way, and went into the house, -hardening her heart, and resisting the destiny that lay before her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -SHUT AND BARRED. - - -The destiny that lay before her was a little harder than even she knew, -when she went into the hall that night, throwing off the damp cloak that -she had worn, and mechanically walking to the fire in the library to -warm herself, after her half-hour in the chilly night air. She thought -she knew how dull and hateful her life was to be, how lonely, how -uneventful. She was still young--twenty-nine is young when you are -twenty-nine, not, of course, when you are seventeen. She had just found -out what it is, to have life full and intense in emotion and interest, -and now she was turned back into the old path that had seemed good -enough before, when she did not know any better one. But still, with -resolute courage, she said to herself, her mother, and duty, and study, -and health, and money, might do something for her yet, and, after a year -or two of bitterness, restore her to content and usefulness. - -These things she said to herself, not on that first night of pain, but -the next day, when she walked past the shut-up house, and wondered, -under the cold gray sky, at the strength of the emotion that had filled -her as she had watched, through the darkness, the glimmer of the cigar -spark by the gate. Thank heaven, she hadn't spoken! She knew just as -well now what she had lost, as then, but daylight, and east wind, level -values inevitably. It was all worth less--living and dying, love and -loneliness. She could bear what she had chosen, she hadn't any doubt. - -How gloomy the day was! Raw and chill, and yet not cold enough to brace -the nerves. The gate stood ajar. Missy pushed through it, and walked -down the path. Some straw littered the piazza steps; an empty paper box -lay on the grass. The windows were all closed. Only the dog, still -chained to his kennel, howled her a dismal welcome. He was to go, -probably, to some new home that day. Well, Missy thought bitterly, he -will at least have novelty to divert him. - -She didn't go on the piazza; she remembered, with a sense of shame, the -last time she had crossed that threshold, saying it should be the last -time. What a tempest of jealousy and anger had been in her heart! Oh, -the folly of it (not to say the sin of it). How she had been conquered -by those two women (not to say the enemy of souls). She could see it all -so clearly now. Every word and look and gesture of Mr. Andrews took a -different meaning, now she was in her senses. That dinner had been his -last hope, his last attempt to conciliate her. She had repulsed him more -sharply than ever that night, stung as she was by the insults of her two -rivals. After that, he had made his plans to go away and end the matter. -Miss Flora might thank her for "dear Europe," this time. - -But poor little Jay, what had he to thank her for? Ah! that gave her -heart a pinch to think of. Poor little Jay might set down as the sum of -his gratitude to her, a miserable youth, a mercenary rule at home, -deceit and worldliness, low aims, and selfishness, that would drive him -shelterless into the world to find his pleasure there. For Missy never -doubted that Flora would gain her end. She knew Mr. Andrews was not -clever enough to stand out very long. "He's just the sort of man," she -said to herself, "to be married by somebody who is persistent. He -doesn't know women well enough to stand out against them. He will give -in for the children's sake, he won't care for his own. And he will spend -a life of homeless wretchedness, silent and stolid, protecting the woman -who is cheating him, laboring for the children who will disappoint him. -Ah! my little Jay, forgive me," she cried, stooping and picking up a -broken whip of his that lay in the grass beside the path. - -Everybody makes mistakes, but it isn't often given to any one to make -such a wholesale one as this. We must be charitable to Missy if she was -bitter and gloomy that dark morning. She wandered about the paths for a -little while longer, then, picking a few artemesias that grew close up -by the house, she turned to go away. At the gate she met a boy with a -yellow envelope in his hand. He was just going to her house, he -explained, presenting the envelope. It was a telegram, and Missy opened -it hastily. - -"It is all right," she said, giving him the money, and putting the paper -in her pocket. We are apt to be very selfish when we are miserable, and -Missy's first thought on reading the message was a selfish one. The -message was from her brother. He had just landed, and would be at home -that evening. She did not think of the joy it would be to her mother, of -the joy it might have been to her; she only thought, "Thank Heaven, this -will give me something else to think of for a little while." She was -quite bent upon curing herself, even at this early date; but with the -supreme selfishness of great disappointment, she thought of nothing but -as it influenced her trouble. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -AMICE ASCENDE SUPERIUS. - - -St. John's coming did not prove much help to her. It separated her from -her mother, and gave her a more lonely feeling even than before. She was -further off than ever from sympathy with them. She was smarting over the -loss of what they were giving up. Their lives looked heavenward, hers, -she did not disguise it from herself, looked, earthward, and earthward -only. Their exalted faith had upon her simply the effect of depressing -her own. She had a supreme estimate of common sense. She quite made it -her rule of life just now. Whatever was opposed to it, she was ready to -condemn; and, it must be admitted, there was a good deal in the lives of -St. John and his mother that did not bear its stamp. Tried by its -standard alone, in fact, it would have been difficult to find two people -who were wasting their time more utterly. This Missy was not backward in -saying to herself, and in suggesting to them, as far as she dared. That -was not very far, for there was something about St. John that prevented -people from taking liberties with him. His reality, sincerity, and -simplicity of aim commanded the respect that his humility never claimed. -No one felt it possible to remonstrate with him, however much inclined -to blame. Dignity would have been his last aspiration, rather his -abhorrence; but his self-less-ness answered pretty much the same -purpose. The thing we are most apt to resent in others is personal claim -to--anything. When a man claims nothing, and has given himself away, we -can't quarrel with him, however poor a bargain we may consider he has -made. Neither was it possible to pity St. John, or to feel contempt for -him. The natural force of his character forbade that, and (those who -sympathized with him would say) the grandeur of his purpose. - -So it was that his aunt fretted and scolded about him to his mother, and -made her life a burden to her, but in his presence was quite silent -about the matter of his vocation, and much more agreeable and well -behaved than in anybody else's presence. And Mrs. Hazard Smatter was -quite unable to ask him questions or to gain information from him. Very -soon after his arrival, oppressed no doubt by the mediæval murkiness of -the atmosphere, and the unfamiliarity of the situation, she quietly -gathered up her notes and queries and prepared to wing her way to more -speculative regions and a freer air. Even Goneril's tongue was tame when -he was by, though she beat and brushed and shook his black habit as if -it were the Pope, and harangued about the Inquisition to her -fellow-servants by the hour together. - -This same black habit was a great snare to Missy. She always spoke of it -to her mother as "his costume," as if it had come from Worth's; and it -was a good many days before she could be resigned to his walking -through the village. She even importuned her mother to beg him to give -it up during his visit home. - -"In the name of common sense, mamma," she exclaimed, "why need he -disedify these country people, over whom he has some influence, by this -puerile affectation? What virtue is there in that extra yard or two of -cloth? He could save souls in a pea-jacket, I should think, if he were -in earnest in the matter." - -It was rather hard on Mrs. Varian to have to bear all these criticisms. -That she had to bear them came of her natural sweetness and softness, -which led every one, beginning with Missy, to dictate to her. But there -was something even harder than this, that fell to her share of the -oblation. She had to tell Missy of something very bitter, and to -endeavor to reconcile her to it. She had prepared herself for it, in -many silent hours, but it is hard, always, to give pain, harder, to some -natures, than to bear it. - -It was one evening, when Missy came to her room for her good-night kiss, -that she chose. St. John had gone away to be gone two or three days, and -it is probable that the hour had been settled upon for a long while. But -prepared as she was, there was a tremble in her voice when she said: - -"Come and sit down by me for a little while. I have something to say to -you," that made Missy feel, with a sharp tightening across her heart, -that there was something painful coming. - -She sat down where the light of the lamp did not fall upon her and said, -with a forced calmness, as she bent forward to do something to the fire, - -"Well, mamma, what is it? If you have anything to say to me, of course -it must be nice." - -"You don't always think so, I'm afraid, my child," said her mother, with -a sigh. "I wish that I might never have anything to tell you that did -not give you pleasure." - -"Which is equivalent to telling me you have something to tell me that -will give me pain. Pray don't mind it. I ought to be used to hearing -things I don't like by this time, don't you think I ought?" - -"Most of us have to hear things that are painful, more or less often in -our lives--and change is almost always painful to natures like yours, -Missy." - -"Oh, as to that, sometimes I have felt, lately, that change would be -more acceptable than anything. So don't be afraid. Perhaps you will find -it will be good news, after all." - -"I earnestly wish so. Of this I am confident, one day you will feel it -was what was best, whether it gave you pain or not at first." - -"Proceed, mamma, proceed! If there is anything that rasps my nerves it -is to see the knife gleaming about in the folds of your dress, while I -see you are trying to hide it, and I am doubtful which part of me is -doomed to the stroke. Anything but suspense. What is it, who is it this -time? We don't slay the slain, so it can't be St. John. You are not -going to ask me to mourn him again?" - -"No, Missy, and I am not going to ask you to mourn at all." - -"Oh, excuse me. But you know I will mourn, being so blinded and carnal. -Mamma, let me have it in plain English. What sacrifice am I to be called -upon to make now? Is it you, or my home, or what?" - -"Both, my child, if you will put it so--I cannot make it easy." - -Missy started to her feet, and stood very pale beside her mother's sofa. - -"You have shown so little sympathy with St. John's plans, that I have -been unable to ask you to share in their discussion, as day after day -they have matured. You know the house belongs to him, he has given up -all--you can see what it involves." - -"I see, and his mother is to be turned out of house and home, to satisfy -his ultra piety." - -"Missy, let me speak quickly, and have done. I cannot bear this any -better than you. It is impossible for me to give myself up as St. John -has given himself. I have no longer youth and health to offer. But there -is one thing I can do, and that is not to stand in his way--and another. -Hear me patiently, Missy; I know it will be pain to you; I am going to -identify myself with his work in a certain way." - -"You! What am I hearing? Are you going to India, to Africa?--I am -prepared for anything." - -"No, Missy. Your brother's India is very near at hand. His order are -establishing a house in one of the worst parts of the city. Next to the -church which they have bought--" - -"With his money," interpolated Missy. - -"With his money, if you choose; next to the church which they have -bought--there is a house which I am going to buy. It may be the starting -point for the work of a sisterhood, it may be a refuge, a shelter for -whoever needs refuge or shelter. It is given--its uses will be shown if -God accepts it." - -"And you?" said Missy, in a smothered voice, standing still and -white-faced before her. - -"And I--am going to live there, Missy, and do the work that God appoints -me, or bear the inaction that He deems to be my part. It is a poor -offering and no sacrifice, for it is the life I crave. Only as to the -suffering I lay on you, I shrink from. God knows, if you could only -sympathise with me and go too--what a weight would be lifted off my -heart;--but I feel I cannot hope for that. It is always open to you, and -I shall always pray that it may come to pass, and we shall not really be -separated so very much. I shall not, perhaps, be bound by any rule, and -if my health suffers or if you need me ever, I shall always be free to -come to you--" - -"Let me understand," said Missy, in an unnatural voice, sitting down -upon the nearest chair. "You go too fast for me. Where am I to be, when -you are to feel free to come to me? This house is no longer to be our -home, you say. What is to be my home? What plans, if any, have you made -for me? Don't go any further, please, till I comprehend the situation of -things a little better. This staggers me, and I--don't know exactly what -it all means." - -She put her hands before her face for a moment, but then quickly -withdrew them and folding them in her lap, sat silent till her mother -spoke. - -"The house was inevitable, of course I always knew that--and St. John is -now of age. I do not know whether you had thought of it, I supposed you -had." - -"It never had occurred to me. I had forgotten that the house was left to -him." - -"And our united income, Missy, yours and mine, would have been -seriously crippled if we had attempted to buy it from him, and to keep -it up. This is an expensive place, and it would make you unhappy to see -it less well kept than formerly. Even if--if I had not resolved upon -this step for myself, it would scarcely have been possible to have -remained here, at least, as we have been. This has been a great care and -anxiety to me for many months. It would have been a great relief to me -to have spoken to you, but your want of sympathy in St. John's work, -made it impossible for me to talk to you about it. It has seemed so to -St. John and me--we have given it much anxious thought--that the income -from your father's property which I have settled all on you, is ample -for your maintenance any where you choose to live. But--to me it has -seemed a good plan, that you should take the old Roncevalle house across -the way, with Aunt Harriet, and live there. It is vacant now you know, -it is comfortable, the rent is low--" - -Missy's eyes gave forth a sudden glow of light; she started to her feet, -but then sank back upon her chair again. - -"Mamma, that is too much--that is more than I can stand. The home is to -be broken up--my whole life is to be laid waste. I am no longer set in a -family--I am adrift--I am motherless and homeless--but that is not what -I complain of. I only ask, why am I to take up the unpleasantest duty of -your life? Why am I to be burdened with a blind, infirm and hateful -woman who is in no way related to me by ties of blood or of affection? A -beautiful home you have mapped out for me! An enchanting future! It -seems to me you must think better of me than I have ever been led to -believe you did, if you think me capable of such self-sacrifice." - -"It is for you to take it up or lay it down as suits you, Missy. If -Harriet will come with me, you know she will have a home and all the -care that I can give her. But you can see that it is of no use to make -such a proposition now. When she is older and more broken, she may be -glad of the refuge we can give her, but now it would be in vain to think -of it. And you, oh my child, do not be unkind when you think of what I -have done. Reflect that I have given you my life, for all these many -years. All that I have had has been yours, all that I have would still -be yours, if you would share it in the consecrated retirement to which I -now feel called. It would be the dearest wish of my heart fulfilled, if -I could have you with me there. There would be scope for your energy, -for all your talents, in the work that lies before us. But, I know I -must not dream of this till you see things differently." - -"No," said Missy, in a cold, hard tone. "You have one child, with whom -your sympathy is perfect. He must suffice. Live for him now; I have had -my share, no doubt." - -"Missy! do not break my heart; I am not going to live for St. John. I am -not going away from you for any human companionship. How can I talk to -you? How explain what I feel, when you will not, cannot understand?" - -"No, I cannot understand," cried Missy, with a sudden burst of tears. -"Oh mother, mother, how can you go away from me? How can you leave me in -this frightful loneliness? I am not to you what you are to me or you -would never do it." - -"Missy, you could have done it. I have not read your face in vain for -these last few weeks. You could have done it, and you would. I cannot -make a comparison between the affection that would have satisfied you to -leave me--and the--the feeling of my heart that draws me out of the -world into stillness, retreat, consecration. I cannot explain, cannot -talk of it. If you do not understand, you cannot. It is no sacrifice, -except the being separated from you--that will be the pain hidden in my -joy, as it would have been the pain hidden in your joy if you had -married. The pain would not have killed the joy, nor made you give it -up. This is not the enthusiasm of a moment, Missy. It is what has come -of long, long years of silence and of thought. A way has opened, beyond -my hopes--possibilities of acceptance--of advance. There is a great work -to be done: I must not hold it back from humility, from timidity. It -seems so unspeakable a bliss that I--stranded--useless--wrecked--should -be made a part of anything given to the glory of God. I daily fear it -may be presumption to dream of such a thing, and that I shall be rebuked -and checked. But even if I am, my offering is made--all--for Him to take -or leave. All! ah, poor and miserable all, 'the dregs of a polluted -life!' Would that from the first moment that I drew my breath my soul -had reached up to Him with its every affection--with its every -aspiration! Oh 'that I might love Him as well as ever any creature loved -Him!' That patience and penitence might win Him to forget the wasted -past, and restore the blighted years that are gone from me!" - -She hid her face in her hands, and Missy, sinking down on the floor -beside her, cried out, with tears: - -"Why cannot you serve Him and love Him here as you have always done, all -your good and holy life! Why can't you worship Him in the old way, and -be satisfied with doing your duty in your own home, and staying with -those who need you, and whom He has given you to love and care for! Oh, -mamma, this is some great and terrible mistake. Think before it is too -late!" - -"Listen, Missy," she said, after a few moments; her brief emotion -passed. "Listen, and these are words of truth and soberness. I am -useless here. There is a possibility _there_ I might be of some humble -service. You are more capable of managing and directing in every day -matters than I ever was. You are no longer a young girl. I leave you -with conventional propriety, for your Aunt Harriet is all that is -requisite before the world. If you make it a question of family duty, -St. John is many years younger than you, and may need me more. The home -here is expensive, luxurious. The money is wanted for the saving of the -souls and bodies of Christ's poor. To me there seems no question. I wish -there might not be to you. If it were a matter of the cloister, I might -waver, it is possible. I am not permitted to go that length in my -oblation. I am now only separating myself from you by the length of time -that you choose to stay away from me. In a house such as this is -designed to be, you could always have your place, your share of work and -interest. We shall win you to it, dear child; when you see what it is, -your prejudice will wear away." - -"Prejudice!" cried Missy, passionately. "What is not prejudice? Yours -and St. John's have cost me dear. Oh, mamma, how could you have had such -an alien child? Why must we see everything in such a different light? -You and St. John are always of one mind. I am shut out from you by such -a wall. I am so lonely, so wretched, and perhaps you can't understand -enough to pity me. Oh, mamma, you are all I have in the world! Don't go -away and leave me! Don't break up this home, which must be dear to you; -don't turn away from what your heart says always. It can't be wrong to -love your home, it can't be wrong to be sorry for your child. Oh, what -misery is come upon me! Mamma, mamma, you will kill me if you go away! -You must not, cannot, shall not go!" - -From such scenes as this, it is better, perhaps, to turn away. When men -are not of one mind in a house, how sore the strife it brings--how long -and bitter the struggle when love is wrestling with love, but when self -is mixed up in the war. It was a longer and crueller struggle than she -had foreseen. Missy could see no light in the future, and grew no nearer -being reconciled. Day after day passed, scene after scene of -wretchedness, alternate pleading and reproaching, reasoning and -rebellion. From St. John, Missy could not bear a word. She refused to -treat with him, but threw herself upon her mother. Those were dark and -troubled days. St. John looked a little paler than usual; the mother was -worn and tortured, but gave no sign of relenting. A gentle, pliant -nature seems sometimes more firm for such an assault as this. At last, -all discussion of it was given up; Missy, hardening herself, went about -the house cold-eyed, imperious, impatient. St. John was absent much of -the time--Miss Varian had not yet been informed what was in store for -her; all tacitly put off that very evil day. - -Meanwhile the preparations for the change went quietly on. The old -Roncevalle house was one that belonged to the Varians; having been -bought by Mr. Varian in those lordly days, when laying field to field, -and house to house, seems the natural outlet of egotism and youth. Felix -Varian, young and used to success, had the aspirations of most young and -wealthy men. He proposed in the first flush of satisfaction in his home, -to make it a fine estate, worthy of his name and of the yellow-haired -baby, who had now grown up to wear a black habit and a girdle round his -waist. He bought right and left, and made some rather unprofitable -purchases. His early death left matters somewhat involved, but yet, when -all was settled up, the Varians were still a wealthy family, and the -young heir had a good deal to take with him to his work in that dirty -down-town street, of which Missy thought with such loathing and -contempt, and he with such fervor of hope. Missy's father had had a -comfortable little property, which had been thriftily managed, and this -was now to be hers exclusively. It was by no means a princely -settlement, but it was quite as much as an unmarried woman needed to -live comfortably upon, and she felt that her mother had done quite right -in not offering her a cent of the Varian money, which she never would -have touched. She had hated her stepfather fervently as a child; now she -felt strangely drawn to him, and as if they had a common injury. How he -would have scorned this infatuation, and resented this appropriation of -his gorgeous and luxurious gold. - -The Roncevalle house had always been kept in order, and rented -furnished. It was a comfortable looking house, standing close to the -street, with a broad piazza, and having a pretty view of the bay. It was -very well--but oh! as a home, coming after the one she had grown up in! -Poor Missy loathed it. She had made it part of her capable management of -things to keep this house furnished from the overflow of their own. It -was a family joke that this was the hospital for disabled and repaired -furniture, the retreat to which things out of style and undesirable were -committed. If a new carpet were coveted at home, it was so good an -excuse to say the Roncevalle carpets needed renovating, and it was best -to put the new ones on the floors at home. When Missy's dainty taste -tired of a lamp or a piece of china, it was ordered over to the -Roncevalle. It may be imagined with what feelings she contemplated -living over those discarded carpets, eating her dinner off that -condemned china, being mistress of that third-rate house. - -But to do her justice, this formed a very small part of her trial. She -was of a nature averse to change, firm in its attachments. To give up -her home would have been heart-breaking, even though she should still -have had the companionship of her mother. But when that was broken, and -the whole face of her life changed, it seemed to her, indeed, a bitter -fate. She could see no righteousness in it, no excuse, no palliation. -She felt sure that it was but the beginning of the end, and that her -mother could but a short time survive the fanatical sacrifice she had -made. She imagined her in the reeking, filthy streets of midsummer, -surrounded by detestable noises and sights, without the comforts to -which she was accustomed. - -"Nothing prevents my coming to you, if I am ill," said her mother. "And, -Missy, if I can live through _this_, I can endure anything, I think." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -THE BROOK IN THE WAY. - - -It was, indeed, the hardest part, that first step, to all, but it was -accomplished, somehow. The early spring found Mrs. Varian in her new -home, St. John established in his work, Missy and Miss Varian settled in -the Roncevalle house, and the dear home shut up. It was in the market, -to be sold if any one would buy, to be rented if nobody would. They had -gone out of it, taking little, and it was in perfect order. - -About this time Missy broke down, and had the first illness of her life. -St. John came up to her, and brought one of the newly-imported Sisters -to nurse her. She would have rebelled against this, if she had been in -condition to rebel. She was not, however, and could only submit. - -What is the use of going through her illness? We have most of us been -ill, and know the dark rooms we are led through, and the hopelessness, -and helplessness, and weariness; the foreign land we seem to be in, -with well people stealing on tip-toe out of our sight to eat their -comfortable dinners, with kind attendants reading the morning paper -behind the window curtains, with faithful affection smothering yawns -through our tossing, sleepless nights. Yes, everybody is well and we are -sick. Everybody is in life, and we are in some strange, half-way place, -that is not life nor death. We may be so near eternity, and yet we -cannot think of it; so wretched, so wretched, the fretted body cannot -turn its thoughts away from itself. We are alone as far as earth goes, -and alone, as far as any nearness to Heaven feels. What is the good of -it all? What have we gained (if we ever get back) by this journey into a -strange land, that didn't seem to be joyous but grievous? Well, a great -many things, perhaps, but one thing almost certainly: Detachment. It is -scarcely possible to love life and see good days with the same zest -after this sorrowful journey. It abates one's relish for enjoyment, it -tempers one's thirst for present pleasures; it loosens one's hold upon -things mundane. That is the certain good it does, and the uncertain, how -infinite! - -Poor Missy felt like a penitent child, after that illness of hers. She -did not feel any better, nor any surer that she should be any stronger -or wiser; but she felt the certainty that she had put a very wrong value -upon things, and that life was a very different matter from what she had -been considering it. She felt so ashamed of her self-will, so humbled -about her own judgment. She still did not like long black dresses on men -or women, but she felt very much obliged to St. John and the good Sister -for all the weeks they had spent in taking care of her. And although -stained glass windows, and swinging lamps, and church embroidery did -not appeal to her in the least; she began to understand how they might -appeal to people of a different temperament. Let it not be imagined that -Missy came out of this a lamb of meekness. On the contrary, she was very -exacting about her broth, and once cried because the nurse would not -keep Miss Varian out of the room. But then she was more sorry for it -than she had been in the habit of being, and made Miss Varian a handsome -apology the first time she was well enough to see her. - -She looked out of the window, across the road, upon the trees just -budding into loveliness on the lawn of her dearest home, and wondered -that she should have thought it mattered so very much whether she lived -in this house or in that, considering it was not going to be forever, -either here or there. - -St. John came and sat down by her one afternoon, as she lay in a great -easy chair, looking out at the spring verdure and the soft declining -sunshine. She had never got to talking of very deep things to St. John, -since her unhappy controversy with him, but she felt so sure that he -would not talk of anything that she objected to, that she was at her -ease with him. They talked about the great tulip tree on the lawn, that -they could just see from the window, and the aspens by the gate, just -large-leaved enough to shiver in the softly-moving breeze. Then Missy -forced herself to ask if a tenant had been found for the house, and he -answered her, yes, and also, that he had heard that the Andrews' place -was rented too. - -"I'm sorry," he said, "that Mr. Andrews has gone away from here. I felt -as if it were the sort of place he might have been happy in, and much -respected. Did you ever get to know him well? I remember that you took a -fancy to the children." - -"I saw a good deal of them last summer," said Missy, wearily. How far -off last summer seemed! - -"What a terrible life!" said St. John, musingly. "Not one man in a -thousand could have borne what he did; it was almost heroic, and yet I -think my first impression was that he was common-place." - -"I don't understand," said Missy, "tell me." - -"It isn't possible you don't know about his wife?" - -So St. John told her something that she certainly hadn't known before -about his wife. St. John had learned it from others; the story had been -pretty well known in an English town where he had been the year before, -and had come to him in ways that put it beyond any doubt. Mr. Andrews -had married a young woman, of French extraction, of whom nobody seemed -to know anything, but that she was distractingly pretty. After three or -four years she had proved to be the very worst woman that could be -imagined. She had a lover, who was the father of Gabrielle; she had -married just in time to conceal her shame from the world and from her -husband. They went to Europe after the little girl's birth, and in about -two years Jay was born. When he was a few months old, the suspicions of -the husband were aroused by some accidental circumstance. The lover had -followed them, and had renewed his correspondence with her. Some violent -scenes occurred. She professed penitence and promised amendment. Her -next move was a bungling conspiracy with her lover to poison her -husband. A horrid exposé of the whole thing threatened. It was with -difficulty suppressed, the man fled, leaving her to bear all. In her -rage and despair she took poison, and barely escaped dying. It was -managed that the thing never came to trial. Mr. Andrews, out of pity for -the miserable creature, whose health was permanently destroyed by her -mad act, resolved not to abandon her to destruction. His love for his -little son, and his compassion for the poor little bastard girl, induced -him still to shelter her, and to keep up the fiction of a home for their -sakes. - -"I don't think," said St. John, "one could fancy a finer action. -Protecting the woman who had attempted his life, adopting the child who -had been palmed off upon him, establishing a home which must have been -full of bitterness all the time. There are not many men who could have -done this. It seems to me utter self-renunciation. Doesn't it seem so to -you?" - -"How long have you known this?" cried Missy, bursting into tears. "Oh! -St. John, if you had only told me! You might have saved me from -being--so unjust." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -SANCTUARY. - - -A few weeks later, when St. John had come up again to see after her, -Missy asked him to take her to her mother, and so, in the summer, when -the country was at its loveliest, and the city at its worst, he came for -her, and took her, still too weak to travel alone, to the new house of -religion in the old haunts of sin. It was not a favorable season -certainly, but the weather fortunately was rather cool for July, and -Missy's longing to see her mother was so great, her distaste for city -streets was overshadowed. - -The church which the Order had bought was not a model of architecture, -but it was large and capable of receiving improvement. The house -adjoining it, which was to be the nucleus of a Sisters' house, was roomy -and shabby. It had rather had pretensions to elegance in days very long -past, but it had gone through varied and not improving experiences, and -was a pretty forlorn place when St. John took it in hand. It seemed to -him so renovated and advanced, in comparison, that he could not -understand his sister's slight shudder and look of repugnance as they -entered the bare hall. Of course there were no carpets, as became a -Sisters' house, and the rooms that Missy saw as she passed them were -very plain indeed as to furniture, and very uncheerful as to outlook. -Naturally, you cannot have a house in the midst of the lowest population -of a large city, whose windows would have a pleasing or cheerful -outlook. - -But when Missy came to her mother's room, it was different to her from -the others, and not repugnant. It was a large room, of course plainly -furnished; but the color of the walls, the few ornaments, the -bookshelves, all proclaimed that St. John had not been as severe in -arranging his mother's room, as in the treatment of his own. This house -"joined hard to the synagogue," and a door had been cut through on this -second story, and a little gallery built, and there, at all the hours, -Mrs. Varian could go. It was never necessary for her to leave her room. -What a center that room became of helpful sympathy, of tender counsel, -of rest for tired workers! What a sanctuary of peaceful contemplation, -of satisfied longing, of exalted faith! It was the dream of her life -fulfilled; the prayer alike of her innocence and penitence answered. - -From the little gallery that overhung the church, she heard her son's -voice in the grey dawn, as he celebrated the earliest Eucharist, and -from that hour, perhaps, she did not hear it again till, at eight -o'clock in the evening, he came to her room for a half-hour's -refreshment after the hard work of his day. The clergy house was on the -other side of the church, about half a block away. It was as yet a very -miserable affair, only advanced by an application of soap and water from -its recent office of mechanics' boarding-house. But St. John seemed to -think that half-hour in his mother's peaceful room made up for all. It -was very self-indulgent, but he always took a cup of tea from her hands, -which she made him out of a little silver tea-pot that she had used -since he was a baby a week old. And the cup out of which he drank it, -was of Sêvres china, a part of the cadeau brought to the pretty young -mother's bedside in that happy week of solicitude. This little service -was almost the only souvenir they had brought of the past life now laid -away by both of them, but it was very sacred and very sweet, and -probably not very sinful. It was a fact, however, that St. John -reproached himself sometimes for the eagerness with which he looked -forward to this little _soulagement_, during the toils of the day. If he -had not felt that it was perhaps as dear and necessary to his mother, I -am afraid he would have given it up. - -Missy saw all this, and much more, of their life, and wondered, as she -lay on the lounge that had been brought for her into her mother's room. -She saw and wondered, at the interested happy lives of the women in long -black dresses, who came and went, in their gliding, silent way, in and -out of her mother's room. She could not help seeing, that in the -offices, to which the inevitable bell was always calling them, there was -no monotony, not so much weariness as in the one-day-in-seven service in -a country parish. Their poor, their housekeeping, the interests of their -order, seemed to supply all beside that they needed. There was no -denying it, their faces were satisfied and happy--except one sister who -had dyspepsia, and nobody can look entirely satisfied and happy who has -dyspepsia, in the world, or out of it. - -As to her mother, there was no visible failure in health, but a most -visible increase of mental power and energy, and the inexpressible look -that comes from doing work your heart is in, from walking in the path -for which your feet were formed. Patient doing of duty against the grain -may be better than not doing duty at all, but it always writes a weary -mark across the face. That mark which her mother's face had borne, ever -since Missy could remember it, was gone. - -Weary no doubt she often was, for her hand and brain were rarely idle -now; but it was the healthy weariness that brings the sleep of the just, -and wipes out toil with rest. Neither did Missy understand--how could -she?--the bliss of those hours spent in the little gallery that -overlooked the empty and silent church. She could have understood the -thrill that it might have given her, to see the crowd that sometimes -filled the church, hanging upon the words of the preacher, if that -preacher had been her son. But, alas for Missy! St. John did only humble -out-of-sight work. He rarely preached, and then only to supply some -one's place, who had been called away or hindered by illness. There were -two or three priests, older than he, who did the work that appeared to -the world, and who were above him in everything, and who were praised, -and who had influence. What was St. John, who had given all his money, -and all his time, and all his heart, to this work? The lowest one of -all, of less authority or influence or consideration than any. Well, if -he was satisfied, no one need complain, and he evidently was. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -VESPERS. - - -Late one afternoon, during this visit of hers, Missy stole into the -little gallery by herself, and closed the door. The plaintive and -persistent bell had shaken out its summons in the house. Her mother -slept through it, overcome by the heat and by some unusual exertion in -the morning. Missy did not consider herself bound to assist at all the -offices, but she rather liked it, and crept in very often when no one -was noticing, and when she happened to feel well enough. A few poor -people came in this afternoon, and two or three Sisters. St. John said -the prayers. When the prayers were over, and he had gone into the -sacristy, Missy still lingered, leaning her head on the rail, and gazing -down into the church. St. John came out, after a moment, and the poor -people came up, two or three of them, and preferred petitions for -pecuniary or spiritual aid, principally pecuniary. - -After their audiences were ended, they shambled away; the Sisters had -disappeared, and the church was empty but for one figure, standing near -the door. St. John gave an inquiring look, and made a step forward. The -lady, for it was a lady, seemed to hesitate, and her attitude and -movements betrayed great agitation. Some late rays of the afternoon sun -came piercing down through a high-up, colored window. Missy looked down -with keen interest upon the two; it was another scene in her brother's -life. - -"You are too young for the care of penitents like that, my dear St. -John," she said to herself, sententiously. For the lady was pretty, more -than pretty, and young and graceful. - -She came forward rapidly, her resolution once made, and stood before St. -John, half way down the aisle. He did not look very young, thanks to its -being "always fast and vigil, always watch and prayer," with him; his -peculiar dress made him seem taller than he really was, almost gaunt. -His face had a sobered, worn look, but an expression of great sweetness. -He carried his head a little forward, and his eyes, which were almost -always on the ground, he raised with a sort of gentle inquiry, an -appealing, wondering interest, to the face before him. Because, to St. -John, people were "souls," and he was always thinking of their eternal -state. As to a lawyer, those he meets are possible clients, and to a -doctor, patients, so to this other professional mind all were included -in his hopes of penitence or progress. He raised his eyes to the -new-comer's face, and Missy saw the start he gave, and the great change -that took place in his expression. It was as if he were, for a moment, -sharply assaulted with some strong pain. He put out his hand, and laid -hold of the wooden railing of a prayer desk near him, as if to steady -himself. - -The lady, meanwhile, had not been too agitated to notice his emotion. -She eagerly scanned his face, stretched out her hand to him timidly, -then drew it back and clasped it in the other, and said something -pleadingly to him, looking up to him with tears. Seeing she did not make -him look at her again, and that he was rapidly gaining self-control, she -flushed, drew back, with a manner almost angry. But in a moment, some -humiliating recollection seemed to sweep over her mind and blot out her -involuntary pride. Her face darkened, and her mouth quivered as she -said, quite loud enough for Missy, in her loft, to hear: - -"The only right I have to come to you, is that the wretched man whom you -have befriended, and whom you are preparing for the gallows, is the -man--to whom I am married." - -St. John started again, and said--? The name Missy did not catch. The -stranger assented, and went on speaking bitterly, and with a voice -broken by agitation. "He tells me he has confessed to you. I do not -believe it--I do not believe he would tell the truth, even upon the -gallows. His perfidy to my poor sister, ruining her, breaking her heart, -destroying her chance of being happy in a good marriage--to me enticing -me away from you--and then dragging me through shame and suffering that -I cannot even bear to think of--his low vices--his heartless frauds--has -he told you all these?--You used to be young. I should think you would -soon be old enough if you have to hear many such stories. I should think -you would be tired of living in a world that had such things done in -it." - -St. John did not answer. His eyes never now left the ground. - -"I am tired of it," she cried, with tears. "I am tired and sick of life. -I want to die, and only I don't dare. Sometimes I come here to the -church and the music and the preaching seem to make me ashamed of my -wicked thoughts; but it doesn't stay, and I go back to all my miseries -and I am no better. I don't know what has kept me from the worst kind of -a life. I don't know what keeps me from the worst kind of a death. I -have sometimes wondered if it wasn't that you pray for me--among your -enemies, I suppose, if you do." - -There was a pause, and then she went on: "Last Sunday night I heard you -preach; I had only heard your voice reading the prayers before that. -Ever since, I have wanted to speak to you to ask you about something -that you said." - -Then St. John lifted his head and said, in a voice that was notably -calm, "I hope you will come here often, and, if you will let me, I will -ask Father Ellis to talk with you and to give you counsel. He has had -great experience, and he will help you." - -Missy listened breathless for the words that came at last, after a -succession of emotions had passed over her face. "You have not forgiven -me!" she said. "Is that being good and holy, as you teach? You will not -talk to me and help me yourself, but send me to some one I don't know -and who won't understand. Why won't you forgive me? Heaven knows I have -been sorry enough and repented enough!" - -A lovely smile passed over St. John's face, one would almost have said -there was a shade of amusement in it, but it was all gone in a moment, -and the habitual seriousness returned. - -"I had never thought of any question of forgiveness," he said. "Be -assured of it in any case." - -"Then why," she hurried on, keenly searching his face, "why will you not -let me speak to you? Why will you not teach me, and help me, as you say -Father Ellis would do?" - -"Because it is not my part of the work. He has more experience." - -"But you teach Armand. You spend hours in the prison. You have the -direction of souls there." - -"That is a different work," he said, simply. - -"Then," she exclaimed, passionately, "since you refuse me I will go -away. I have been hoping all this time for help from you. If you won't -give it, God knows, that is the end. I will not speak to strangers and -lay open my miserable past. I shall not listen to my conscience any -more. I will get out of my wretchedness any way I can. I might have -known that churches and priests would not do me any good." - -"I should be sorry," he said, calmly, "to think you had come to such a -resolution. No one person is likely to do you more good than another. If -the intention of your heart is right, God can help you through one -person as well as through another." - -"You distrust me," she said. "I suppose I ought not to wonder at it, but -I did not think men as good as you could be so hard. Why do you doubt -that the intention of my heart is right?" - -"I have not said that I doubted it. I have only thought that if it were, -you would be glad to accept any means laid before you, of getting the -assistance that you feel you need." - -The girl, for she looked only that, buried her face in her hands, and a -faint sob echoed through the empty church. "It would be so much easier -to speak to you; it's so hard," she murmured, "to tell a stranger all -you've done wrong, and all the miserable things that have happened to -you." - -"You don't have to tell him all that has happened to you," he said. "You -have only to tell him of your sins. Let me add, that the priest to whom -I advise you to go, has great sympathy with suffering, and is very -gentle." - -Missy hardly breathed, such was her interest in the scene before her. -She took in all the complication, the shock that seeing the woman for -whom he had had such strong feeling, had given St. John, the sorrow of -finding her bound to the miserable criminal, whose last hours he was -trying to purify, the fear of repulsing her, and the danger of -ministering to her. At first she had been overwhelmed with alarm for -him, the grace and beauty of the young creature was so unusual, her -desire to re-establish relations of intimacy so unmistakable. But -something, she did not know what, reassured her. Perhaps it was the -faint gleam of a smile on his face, when she asked him to forgive her; -as if he had said, "You ask me to forgive you for doing me the greatest -favor you could possibly have done." Perhaps it was that she felt -intuitively the inferiority of the woman's nature, that she knew St. -John had been growing away from her, leaving her behind with such -strides that she could not touch him. He was beyond danger from silken -hair or peach-bloom cheeks. If danger came to him, it would be in a -subtler form. She wondered at herself, feeling so confident; she felt -very sorry for the girl, not afraid of her. She looked back at the past, -and said to herself, "This pink-faced, long-lashed young thing has held -a great deal in her hands, but she holds it no more." Her sin and folly -turned more than one life into a new channel. St. John's, his mother's, -Missy's own, what marks they bore of her flippant treachery! She tried -to picture to herself how they would have been living, if, on that -October night, so long ago, St. John had brought her home, instead of -coming alone, with his ashy, dreadful face. If he had married her, and -come to live at Yellowcoats, perhaps, or near them. Ah! perhaps they -would all have been in the dear home. Would it have been better? Looking -at St. John, and looking at her, with the appreciation that she had of -her character from those few moments--would it have been better? No, it -would not have been better. Bitter as this change had been to her, Missy -knew in her heart it would not have been better. She knew St. John might -well smile at the idea of forgiving her, and she herself, though she did -not smile, could thank her, as she had said she thanked her, when she -stood by the mother's sleepless bed that night and heard the story. - -There are some things that we cannot find words for, even in our -thoughts. She could not tell why, but she knew as well as if she had -spelled it out of Worcester and Webster that it was better for them all -to be living this life and not the old. She would have fain not thought -so, but she was convicted. The scene passing in the aisle below her, a -year ago, would have filled her with alarm, and have given her assurance -that her predictions were to be fulfilled. Now, in these bare walls, in -this dim house, "this life of pleasure's death," she felt how powerless -were such temptations, how different the plane on which they stood. It -was all to be felt, not explained. The young creature below her, turning -with a late devotion to the man who had outgrown her, still "blindly -with her blessedness at strife," could not see or feel it. Missy could -pity her, even as she watched her alternate art and artlessness, in -trying to arouse in him some of the old feeling. It was all in vain. - -When the interview ended, and she went away, Missy watched her brother, -as he stood for a while, with his eyes fastened on the ground. Then, -with a long sigh, he walked through the church, adjusting a bench here, -picking up a prayer book there, and then went and kneeled down before -the altar. Missy felt he was not praying for himself, and for power to -resist a temptation, but for the soul of the poor undisciplined girl, -and the sinful man to whom she was bound. - -The end of the story she did not hear at once. Her visit ended about -this time, and she only learned later from her mother, that St. John had -moved Heaven and earth to get the man pardoned. During the time of -suspense, the poor girl had been in a destitute and deplorable state, -but with enough good in her to listen to the teaching of Father Ellis -and the Sisters. In their house she had found shelter; and during -several weeks, Mrs. Varian had had her constantly with her. She never -saw St. John again, except in church. The pardon was despaired of, the -sickening days that were now growing fewer and fewer, were spent by St. -John, mainly with this man, and in the cells of the prison where he lay. -The wretched criminal was a coward, and broken down and abject, at the -approach of death. His late compunction softened his wife towards him; -with one of the Sisters she came often to the prison. - -It was hailed with joy, in the still house, when word came, that at the -last hour he was pardoned, and that his wife was to meet him on board -the vessel that was to take them both to the new life, to which they had -pledged themselves. Poor Gabrielle was half reluctant, but she was -trying to be good, and was in earnest, in a childish sort of way. St. -John looked rather pale and worn after that, and came to Yellowcoats to -recruit for a day or two, or perhaps to see after Missy. His work had -lain principally among "wicked people," as he had proposed to himself in -early days. For some reason he made himself acceptable to prisoners and -outcasts. It is possible his great humility had as much to do with it, -as his sympathetic nature. At all events, he had had plenty to do, and -was quite familiar in prison cells, and at work-house deathbeds. When -this man (Armand) had come under his care, he was under sentence of -death, and was probably the wickedest of all his wicked people. He was -a foreigner, with a hideous past--how hideous, it was likely none but -St. John knew. He was condemned to suffer the penalty of the law, for a -murder committed in a bar-room fray, possibly one of the lightest of the -sins of his life. It was he who had ruined the life of poor little Jay's -mother, and plotted the death of her husband. He was a desperado, a -dramatic villain, the sort of man respectable people rarely meet, except -on the stage or in police courts. - -St. John had not suspected the identity of his penitent with the man to -whom he owed it, that he wore a girdle round his waist, till the day -that Gabrielle came into the church. Poor Gabrielle! It was hard lines -for her to be sent off with the cowardly villain, but there seemed no -other way to settle the fate of both of them, considering that they were -married to each other. A lingering pity filled St. John's heart when he -thought of her, and of the terrible fate to which she had bound herself. -All this sort of thing is exhausting to the nerves, and no one could -begrudge St. John his day and a half of rest by Yellowcoats bay. He and -his fellow-workers took very few such days. Their hands were quite full -of work, not of a sentimental kind. It takes money to send criminals and -their families away to lead new lives in new lands, and money does not -always come for the wishing. It takes time and the expenditure of -thought to prepare men for the gallows, to get their pardons for them if -may be, to smoothe their paths, whichever way they lead; it is good hard -work to do these things, and many like them, and takes the flesh off -men's bones, and wears out nerves and brains almost as effectually as -stocks and speculations But there are men who choose to work in -obscurity in a service for which the world offers them no wages--only a -very stiff contempt. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -SURRENDER. - - -Missy found herself at home in the country, very sorry to leave her -mother, very glad to breathe pure air again, very humble to think how -much she objected to bad smells and street noises. St. John and her -mother did not seem to take them into account at all, and the Sisters -she was sure enjoyed them. Her housekeeping and Aunt Harriet took up a -good deal of her time, but it was pretty dull work, and her heart was -heavy. It was something of a strain to have to see people and to answer -their curious questions; but to tell the truth, Missy was much less -ashamed of her brother and her mother since she came back, and chiefly -felt the impossibility of making anybody understand the matter. She -understood comparatively little herself, but the comfortable rector, -"with fat capon lined," the small-souled doctor, the young brood of -Olors, the strait-laced Sombreros, the evangelical Eves, how much less -could they comprehend. She knew that the keenest interest existed in the -whole community regarding their family matters, and that much -indignation was felt at the breaking up of the home. There were a great -many people who wore inclined to look upon her as a martyr to the -fanaticism of her mother and brother, and she would have been -overwhelmed with civilities if she had consented to receive them. As it -was, she considered every unusual demonstration of regard, as a -disapprobation of her mother, and resented it in her heart, and possibly -showed much coldness of manner. So she gradually isolated herself, and -became daily less a part of the Yellowcoats community. - -How odd it was to be so unimportant! Her small housekeeping required so -few dependents, contrasted with their former ways. Now that they did not -entertain, and that she was neither young nor old, and that illness had -kept her from even the ordinary duties of visiting, she had fallen -almost entirely out of sight. A very gay family had taken their house, -which was now quite a centre of amusement. The Andrews cottage had been -occupied by people whose delight it was to be considered swell. They -drove all sorts of carts, and sailed all manner of boats, and owned all -varieties of dogs. The village gazed at them, and the residents who were -entitled to be considered on a visiting equality, called on them, and -all united to gratify their ambition to be talked about. At these two -houses, poor Missy felt she would be excused from calling. Indeed, no -one seemed to notice the omission; it is so easy to sink down into -obscurity, and to become nobody. She sometimes felt as if she had died, -and had been permitted to come back and see how small a place she had -filled, and how little she was missed, to perfect her in humility. After -all, St. John and his mother--were they so very wrong? What was it all -worth? - -Miss Harriet Varian, about these days, was much easier to get along with -than in more prosperous ones. Perhaps she was touched by Missy's changed -manner and illness; perhaps the insignificance into which they had -fallen, had had for her, too, its lesson. And perhaps the spectacle of -her sister's faith, had, against her will, shocked her into a study of -her own selfish and unlovely life. She had many silent hours now, in -which she did not call for Balzac and diversion; she submitted to hear -books which she had always refused to listen to. She was less querulous -with those around her, less sharp-tongued about her neighbors. She said -nothing about St. John and his mother, only listened silently to the -news that came of them weekly to Missy. Missy and she understood each -other pretty well now; their trouble had drawn them together. In -talking, they knew what to avoid, and each considered the other's -feelings as never before. Two lonely women in one house, with the same -grief to bear, it would have been strange if they had not come together -a little, to carry the load. - -Goneril had so much more to do nowadays, she was much improved. She had -had her choice of going away, or staying to do three times the work she -had had to do in the other house. It is difficult to say why she stayed, -whether from a sort of attachment to Missy, and pity for Miss Varian, or -from a dislike of rupture and change. She had had enough of it herself -to know real trouble when she saw it, and she certainly saw it in the -two women whom she elected to serve. Her wrath had boiled over -vehemently at first. She had been anything but respectful to her -employer's form of faith. But that was completely settled, once for -all, and she now made no allusion to the matter, at least above stairs. -It is quite possible that below she may have had her fling, -occasionally, at "popish 'pression." The Sister who nursed Missy during -her illness, she had, with difficulty, brought herself to be respectful -to, but there was so much of the real nurse in the peppery Goneril, that -during long watches they had come to be almost friends. - -The summer passed slowly away; the autumn came, and with it, the flight -of the summer birds whose strange gay plumage had made her old home so -unnatural to Missy. The dog-carts and the beach-carts and the T-carts -had all been trundled away; the boat-houses were locked up, the stables -emptied; the six months' leases of the two houses were at an end, and -quiet came back to the place. - -It was in November, a sunny Indian summer day. After their early dinner, -Missy went out to roam, as she loved now to do, over the grounds and -along the beach from which for so many months she had been shut out. The -evergreens made still a greenness with their faithful foliage, the lawn -looked like summer. It was an unusual season. There was a chill in the -shut-up rooms, and it made her heart too sore to go often in the house, -but outside she could wander for hours, and feel only a gentle pang, a -soft patient sorrow for what was gone from her never to return. She had -been walking by the narrow path that led through the cedars, wondering, -now at the highness of the tide which was washing up against the bank, -now at the mildness of the air that made it almost impossible to believe -it was November, when the woman who took care of the house came running -after her. Out of breath, she told her some one had just come up by the -cars, to look at the house; would she give her the bunch of keys which -she had put in her pocket instead of giving them back to her, a few -minutes before? - -Missy felt a thrill of anger as she thought of some one to look at the -house. This was indeed her natural enemy, for this time it must be a -purchaser, for it was not yet in the market for rent. She gave the woman -the keys, and then walked on, a storm of envy and discord in her heart. -Yes, the one that should buy this house, she should hate. It was -endurable while people only had it on lease, and came and went and left -it as they found it. But when it should be bought and paid for, when -trees could be cut down and new paths cut and changes made at the will -of strangers, it would be more than she could bear. So few had come to -look at it with a view to buying, she had unconsciously got into a way -of thinking it would not be sold, and that this temporary misery of -letting would go on, and she could yet feel her hold safe upon the trees -and the shrubs and the familiar rooms and closets. Just as they were -now, perhaps, they would remain for years, and she would have the care -of them still, and grow old along with them; and some day the dark dream -of alienation would dissolve and she would come back and die in her own -room. - -She had not known how this plan and this hope had taken possession of -her, till the woman's out-of-breath story, of a stranger from the train, -revealed it to her. Some one coming up from town at this season, meant -business. Yes, the place was as good as sold: or, if this man didn't buy -it, others would be coming to look at it; some one would buy it. At any -rate her peace was gone. She had not known how insensibly she had -depended upon escaping what she had declared to herself she was prepared -for. People said they were asking more for the place than they would -ever get. Perhaps St. John had gone to the agents and put it at a lower -figure; perhaps the Order needed the money and couldn't wait. A bitterer -feeling than she had known for a long time, came with these reflections. -She walked on fast, away from all sight and hearing of the unwelcome -intruders. She fancied how they were poking about the plumbing, and -throwing open the blinds to see the condition of the paint and plaster, -and standing on the lawn, with their backs to the bay, and gazing up at -the house, and saying that chimney must come down, and a new window -could be thrown out there, and the summer parlor must have something -better by way of an entrance. She hated them; she would not put herself -in the way of meeting them. She walked on and on, along the bank, till -she was tired, and then sat down on an uprooted cedar, and pulled the -cape of her coat over her head to keep warm, and waited till she should -be sure they had gone back to the train. She sat with her watch in her -hand, not able to think of the beauty of the smooth, blue bay, spread -below her, nor the calm of the still autumn atmosphere. Nothing was calm -to her now; she found she had been quite self-deceived, and was not half -as resigned and good as she had thought herself. - -"I wish it were all over and done," she said to herself keeping back -bitter tears. "I wish the deed were signed, and the place gone. It is -this suspense that I can't bear. Every time the train comes in, I shall -think some one has come up to look at it. Every time I walk across the -grounds, I shall dread that woman running after me, to ask me for the -keys. Oh, the talking, and the lawyers, and the agents, and St. John -coming up; one day it will be sold, and the next day there will be some -hitch, and there will be backing and filling, and worrying, and -fretting, that wears my life out to look ahead to." - -Poor Missy, she certainly had had some discipline, and not the least -painful part was that she did not find herself as good as she had -thought she was. - -At last she heard the whistle of the cars, faint and far off, to be -sure, but distinct through the still autumn air, and she got up, and -walked back. She went quickly, feeling a little chilled from sitting -still so long, and, full of her painful thoughts, did not look much -about her, till, having emerged from the cedars, and standing upon the -lawn, she looked up, and suddenly became aware that the intruders had -not gone away. A horse and wagon stood before the side entrance, the -horse was blanketed and tied. She looked anxiously around, and saw at -the beach gate, a gentleman standing, his hands in the pockets of his -ulster, and his face towards the bay. He was not at all in the attitude -of criticism that she had fancied, but seemed quite unconscious of the -chimneys and the entrances. His face she could not see, and she hoped to -escape his notice, by hurrying across the lawn before he turned around. -But even her light step on the dry leaves broke his revery, which could -not have been very deep, and he turned quickly about, and came towards -her, as if he had been waiting for her. She uttered a quick cry as she -recognized him, and when he stood beside her and offered her his hand, -she was so agitated that she could not speak. She struggled hard to -overcome this, and managed to say at last: - -"I did not know--I wasn't prepared for seeing anybody but a stranger. I -thought it was somebody to look at the house--" - -"The woman told me you would soon be back--" - -"And I--I can't help feeling," stammered poor Missy, feeling her -agitation must be accounted for in some way, "that people that come to -look at the house are my enemies. I'm--I'm very glad to see you." - -"Even if I have come to look at the house?" - -"O yes, that wouldn't make any difference in my being glad." - -"Well, I have come a great many thousands of miles to look at it. If I -hadn't heard it was for sale, I suppose I should be somewhere about the -second cataract of the Nile to-day." - -"How did you hear about it?" said Missy, not knowing exactly what she -said; but there are a great many times when it doesn't make much -difference what you say, and this was one of those times. Mr. Andrews -would have been a dull man if he hadn't felt pretty confident just then. - -"I saw it in a newspaper, Miss Rothermel, and I felt that that -announcement must mean some trouble to your family. I hoped it was money -trouble, and that I might be able--might be permitted to do something to -put things right." - -"No," said Missy, with a sudden rush of tears to her eyes, "no, it isn't -money trouble. Nobody can help us." - -"I know absolutely nothing," said Mr. Andrews, hesitatingly. "I only -landed last night from the steamer. I have seen no one to-day. I have -only heard from the woman here that everybody was well--that there had -been no death to break your home up, and I couldn't understand. Don't -tell me if you don't want to. I hadn't any right to ask." - -Missy was crying now, in earnest, as they walked up the path, and Mr. -Andrews looked dreadfully distressed. - -"O no," she said, through her tears, "it's a comfort to find anybody -that doesn't know. Everybody here knows so horridly well! I never talk -to anybody. I haven't said a word about it to anyone for months and -months. It's a comfort to talk to you about it--if I ever can--only I've -got crying and I can't stop." - -She sat down on the steps of the summer parlor, where it was sheltered -and where the afternoon sun was still shining. Mr. Andrews sat down -silently beside her, and after a few more struggles with her tears she -took her hands away from her face and began to tell him the story of the -past year. Her eyes were a trifle red, and her skin mottled with her -strong emotion; but I don't think Mr. Andrews minded. - -"Mamma has gone away from me," she said, "to be with St. John and help -him in his work. She has founded a sort of religious house, of which she -isn't to be all the head, or anything like that, I believe; but a -Sisterhood are there, of which she is an associate, and she sees St. -John every day, and the room in which she lives opens into the church -that St. John gave the money to buy--and they do a great and beautiful -work among poor people and they are very happy. - -"It didn't kill mamma as I thought it would, she is better than she was -at home. Everybody here blames her, and that is why I can't talk to any -of them. But you mustn't blame her. Hard as it has been to me, I begin -to see it was not wrong for her to do it. If I had been good I should -have done it too; but I wasn't, and I had to suffer for it. O, if I -could only be like her and like St. John! I don't see how I came to be -so different. At first I hated St. John, and I blamed her, but now I -know in my heart they are all right, and I am all wrong. I can't -understand it or explain it. I only know the truth--that people that can -do what they've done are--are God's own. If I lived a hundred years, I -couldn't be like them, nor be satisfied with what satisfies them. I -couldn't ever be anything but very poor and very common-place, but oh, I -mean to be better than I used to be--a year ago. O, I can't bear to -think of it. But there is no use in talking of what's past. It was right -that I should have to go through what I've gone through, but oh, it was -very hard. And I have been so ill, and everything is so changed in my -life. You can't think how like a dream it all seems to me, when I look -back. This place has been let all summer to strangers, and your place -too, and we are living in the old Roncevalle house, Aunt Harriet and I. -And somehow or another I have got further and further off from all our -friends here. I know they blame mamma and they pity me, and I don't like -either one or the other thing, and I haven't any friend or any one to -talk to, and it has been loneliness such as you can't understand. But I -had got used to things in a certain sort as they are, and I had been -promising myself that nobody would buy the house, and that I could -still have it to myself for a part of the year, and could still think of -it as our own, and was quiet and almost contented, when the woman came -running after me this afternoon and told me some one had come to look at -it, and I was almost as unhappy as at first. I have been crying down on -the bank there by myself all the afternoon. So you must excuse me for -being so upset. I have gone through so much for the last year, being ill -and all--a little thing unnerves me.'" - -For Missy was beginning to feel a little frightened at her own emotion, -and at the silence of her companion. - -"It wasn't a little thing," he said at last, "seeing me and knowing what -had brought me back. I don't think you need be ashamed to be showing -agitation. For you ought never to have let me go away, Miss Rothermel, -don't you see it now? My being here might have saved you, I don't say -everything, but a great deal. I cannot understand why you sent me away. -For I thought then, and I think now, that you relied on me in a certain -way--that you had a certain feeling for me. I should think you would not -have repulsed me." - -"Those horrid women," said Missy faintly, turning very red. - -"I am sure I am very sorry about them. I couldn't help it. I was stupid, -I suppose." - -"I hope they didn't come back with you?" said Missy, with sudden -uneasiness. - -"O no, they are safe in Florence." - -"And you haven't married them?" she asked, with a look of relief. It -made her jealous even to think of their existence. - -Mr. Andrews looked at her as if he were beginning to understand her, -and, half amused and half sad, he said: "No, neither one nor both. And -there is no danger and never was of my wanting to, because for a year -and a half, and may be more, I have wanted very much to marry some one -else." - -"Oh, that reminds me," said Missy, turning rather pale, as if what she -was about to say cost her an effort. "That reminds me of something I -ought to say to you. I heard, last spring, of a thing about you that I -didn't know before. If I had known it I should have felt very -differently about--about you generally--Oh!--why _do_ you make it so -hard to say things to you--I _won't_ say it." - -For Mr. Andrews was quietly, attentively, and perhaps, critically, -listening. He certainly did make it hard to say things. He naturally -showed so little emotion, and said such tremendous things himself, in -such a calm way, Missy found it very difficult to believe them, and very -hard to make statements of an agitating nature to him. - -"I don't know why you won't say it," he said. "Do you think you shall be -sorry?" - -"I don't know. I generally am, whatever I do," she cried, with some more -tears. "But no matter. I suppose you _do_ feel things, though you have -such a cold-blooded way of looking. Well, I didn't know till a few -months ago about--about your wife. And I can only say, I had liked you -so much in spite of believing you were not kind and generous to -her--and--and--if I had known you had been nobler and better than any -other man in the world has ever been--" - -Mr. Andrews got up and walked a few times up and down the path before -the steps, which was the only indication that he gave of not being -cold-blooded when that deep wound was touched. - -"I trusted to your being just to me when you knew the truth," he said, -at last. - -"I wonder you didn't hate me," she exclaimed. - -"Well, I didn't," he said. - -"You have so little egotism," she went on. "I suppose it's that makes -you able to bear injustice. You were so patient and overlooked so much, -and I was--so horrid." - -"I had been so deceived before," he said, "perhaps I was more pleased -with your honesty than offended by it. I was conscious of not deserving -your contempt, and I felt so certain of your truth. I was a little -pleased, too, with your liking me in spite of yourself. You see I knew -you liked me, 'horrid' as you were to me." - -"Then why did you go away, if you knew I liked you?" cried Missy, -looking up at him with fire. - -"Because, at last, I got tired of being snubbed," he said. "I believe I -had got to the end of that patience you are pleased to give me credit -for. I thought I'd go away awhile and let you see how you liked it." - -"And you went away and meant to come back?" exclaimed Missy, beginning -to cry again, "and left me to this dreadful year of misery. I never will -forgive you--I might have died. I only wonder that I didn't." - -"I didn't suppose you cared enough to die about it, but I thought you'd -see you did care when you thought it was too late. I don't know much -about women, but I know that sort of thing occurs. And I didn't mean to -come back as soon as this, either. It was only seeing the place -advertised frightened me a little and made me think you might be going -through some trouble. Do you know, I didn't believe, up to the very last -day, that you would let me go? I have never been angry with you, but I -own I was very sore and disappointed when I found you had gone out that -afternoon, when I sent word by Jay, that I was coming in to say -good-bye. And yet it looked so like pique, I half thought you would send -me some sort of message in the evening." - -Missy hung her head as she remembered that half hour in the darkness at -the gate, but she did not tell him, either then or after, how nearly -right he was about it. - -"Jay did not tell me. Of course you might have known that. And--those -horrid women--said you were going to take them for a drive at half past -three o'clock." - -"They did? Well, I think you're right about them--they are very -'horrid.' There is one thing I don't quite understand; what has -possessed the younger one, at least, to entertain this sort of plan. She -has had more than one offer since we've been abroad, that I know about. -But I believe she has set her heart on being Jay's mamma." - -"It seems to me," said Missy, firing up, "that you have gained in -self-esteem since you have been away. So many young women want to marry -you!" - -"Only two, that I can feel absolutely certain of," he said, sitting down -beside her again, and giving her a most confident, unembarrassed look. - -"I don't like you when you talk that way," she said, flushing, and -pulling her cloak around her as if she were going away. - -"Why, haven't I eaten humble pie long enough? Sit still, Missy, don't go -away yet. I have a great deal more to say to you." - -"I don't like to be called Missy; it isn't my name, to begin with, only -a disrespectful sobriquet, and I haven't given you any right to speak to -me in the way you do," said Missy, palpitating, as she tried to rise. - -"Yes, you have, you have said two things that committed you, besides all -the emotion you showed when you saw me. You can't require me to -misunderstand all that." - -"I don't require you to do anything but let me go away. I--the sun is -setting. It is chilly. I want to go." - -"How do I know that you will let me go with you? It suits me well enough -here. I want to talk to you. It is more than a year since I have had -that pleasure. You haven't even told me if I can have the house. You -used to be a very clever business woman, I remember. Are you going to -make a sharp bargain with me?" - -"I don't care about the house; but I've told you this doesn't please me -in the least." - -Then Mr. Andrews laughed a little. "Well, if you push me to it, I shall -have to buy the house, and bring Flora here as mistress of it. I know -you wouldn't like her as a neighbor, but I can't keep house alone--that -was demonstrated long ago." - -"Mr. Andrews, I--I wish you would let me go. I am tired and I don't -understand why you talk to me in this familiar and uncomfortable way." - -"I won't let you go from these steps, where the sun is still shining and -where you won't get cold, till you surrender unconditionally; till you -tell me that you love me, love,--remember, like is not the word at -all,--and that you have loved me for a year or more; and that you will -marry me, and make me happy, and pay me for the misery you have made me -suffer." - -Surrender was not easy to a young woman who had had her own way so -long--but once accomplished, she was very well contented with her -conqueror, and forgot to resent his confidence in her affection. She -forgot that the sun was going down so fast, and that there was danger of -getting cold by staying out so late. It was twilight when they went up -the steps of the Roncevalle house. - -"What shall I say to Aunt Harriet?" she asked, rather uneasily, feeling -it was odd that this one of the family should be the first one told of -her mighty secret. - -"I should say you'd better tell her, and get the credit of it," he -returned, "for she certainly will guess." - -"Why? I could tell her you had come to buy the house." - -"But you look so happy. What would you tell her to explain that?" - -It is in this way that some long-suffering men avenge the wrongs of -years. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: - -With the following exceptions, the author's original spelling, use of -hyphens, and other punctuation have been left unchanged. - -Obvious printer errors and typographical errors have been corrected -without comment. In addition to obvious errors, the following changes -have been made: - - Page 52: "havn't" was changed to "haven't" in the phrase: "... - haven't done anything...." - - Page 138: "mighn't" was changed to "mightn't" in the phrase: "... - who mightn't yet...." - - Page 191: The words "waters plashed" were changed to "water - splashed". - - Page 263: "hear" was changed to "heard" in the phrase, "... she had - heard...." - - Page 283: Extra word (upon) was removed in the phrase, "... little - way upon upon the...." - - Page 345: "gaze" was changed to "gauze" in the phrase, "... in - gauze de Chambery...." - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Missy, by Miriam Coles Harris - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISSY *** - -***** This file should be named 40129-8.txt or 40129-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/1/2/40129/ - -Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Cathy Maxam, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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