"Yes; I want that matter settled. I'll see if she's with her aunt."
But Miss Jane mused solitarily over the stocking heel, a great white winged moth circling about her meek head or diving ever and anon toward the flame of the candle.
"Where is Permely?" Mr. Galer inquired, frowning.
She dropped one of the long, shining needles with a clinking sound, and stooped to grope around the edge of her skirts for it.
"Why, Jabez, I don't know; I thought—"
"Leave your thoughts out of the question, Jane, and go call her. She is hiding somewhere about the house."
Miss Jane stood up and faced him, nerved to a fleeting courage.
"Brother, don't try to force the child into a loveless marriage. Think how young she is; think—"
"Do as I tell you, Jane; I know what is best for Permely;" and she silently obeyed.
But Mammy Susannah, hovering in the shadow of the stairway, had already slipped out into the garden. It was a beauty's bower. The rising moon shone on beds of tulip and mignonette, on rows of flaunting hollyhocks, blue larkspur and yellow marigolds, on sweet pinks standing thickly in the border of the walks, and roses bending earthward under the weight of their own rich bloom and fragrance; its silvered light fell on the althea hedge with its white and purple flowers, and on Pamela and her lover slowly pacing the walk beyond.