This morning as she sat idly rocking on the veranda, she felt that negative happiness which consists in the disappearance of a positively disagreeable thing. Then she began to study how she should spend the forenoon most agreeably. Isabel was upstairs; she would have been perfectly satisfied to talk with her; but for several mornings Isabel had shown unmistakable preference to be let alone; and in the school of life Harriet had attained the highest proficiency in one branch of knowledge at least—never to get in anybody's way. Victor Fielding lay under the trees with a pipe and a book, but she never ventured near him.
So Harriet bethought herself of a certain friend of hers on the other side of town, Miss Anna Hardage, who lived with her brother, Professor Hardage—two people to trust.
She put on her hat which unfortunately she had chosen to trim herself, tied a white veil across the upper part of her face and got out her second-best pair of gloves: Harriet kept her best gloves for her enemies. In the front yard she pulled a handful of white lilacs (there was some defect here or she would never have carried white lilacs in soiled white gloves); and passed out of the gate. Her eyes were lighted up with anticipations, but ill must have overtaken her in transit; for when she was seated with Miss Anna in a little side porch looking out on the little green yard, they were dimmed with tears.
"The same old story," she complained vehemently. "The same ridicule that has been dinned into my ears since I was a child."
"Ah, now, somebody has been teasing her about being an old maid," said Miss Anna to herself, recognizing the signs.
"This world is a very unprincipled place to live in," continued
Harriet, her rage curdling into philosophy.
"Ah, but it is the best there is just yet," maintained Miss Anna, stoutly. "By and by we may all be able to do better—those of us who get the chance."
"What shall I care then?" said Harriet, scouting eternity as a palliative of contemporary woes.
"Wait! you are tired and you have lost your temper from thirst: children always do. I'll bring something to cure you, fresh from the country, fresh from Ambrose Webb's farm. Besides, you have a dark shade of the blues, my dear; and this remedy is capital for the blues. You have but to sip a glass slowly—and where are they?" And she hastened into the house.
She returned with two glasses of cool buttermilk.