“It was Miss Challoner who told me herself,” observed Mattie, in a deprecating manner. “My brother and I called this afternoon: you see, being the clergyman, and such close neighbors, he thought we might be of some use to the poor things.”
“Poor things indeed!” ejaculated Miss Milner. “I cannot tell you how bad I felt,” she went on, her little gray curls bobbing over her high cheek-bones with every word, “when that dear young lady put down her head there”—pointing to a spot about as big as a half-crown on the wooden counter—“and cried 145 like a baby. ‘Oh, how silly I am!’ she said, sobbing-like; ‘and what would my sisters say to me? But you are so kind, Miss Milner; and it does seem all so strange and horrid.’ I made up my mind, then and there,” finished the good woman, solemnly, “that I would help them to the best of my powers. I have got their bits of advertisements to put about the shop; and there’s my new black silk dress, that has laid by since Christmas, because I knew Miss Slasher would spoil it; not but what they may ruin it finely for me; but I mean to shut my eyes and take the risk,” with a little smile of satisfaction over her own magnanimity.
Elizabeth stretched out her hand across the counter.
“Miss Milner, you are a good creature,” she said, softly. “I honor you for this. If people always helped each other and thought so little of a sacrifice, the world would be a happier place.” And then, without waiting for a reply from the gratified shopwoman, she went out of the library with a thoughtful brow.
“Miss Milner has read me a lesson,” she said, by and by, when Mattie had marvelled at her silence a little. “Conventionality makes cowards of the best of us. I am not particularly worldly-minded,” she went on, with a faint smile, “but all the same I must plead guilty to feeling a little shocked myself at your news; but when I have thought a little more about it, I dare say I shall see things by a truer light, and be as ready to admire these girls as I am now to wonder at them.” And after this she bade Mattie a kindly good-bye.
Meanwhile, Phillis was bracing herself to undergo another ordeal. Mr. Drummond and his sister had only just left the cottage when a footman from the White House brought a note for her. It was from Mrs. Cheyne, and was worded in a most friendly manner.
She thanked the sisters gracefully for their timely help on the previous evening, and, though making light of her accident, owned that it would keep her a prisoner to her sofa for a few days; and then she begged them to waive ceremony and come to her for an hour or two that evening.
“I will not ask you to dinner, because that will perhaps inconvenience you, as you must be tired or busy,” she wrote; “but if one or both of you would just put on your hats and walk up in the cool of the evening to keep Miss Mewlstone and myself company, it would be a real boon to us both.” And then she signed herself “Magdalene Cheyne.”
Phillis wore a perplexed look on her face as she took the note to Nan, who was still in the linen-closet.
“Very kind; very friendly,” commented Nan, when she had finished reading it; “but I could not possibly go, Phil. As soon as I have done this I have promised to sit with mother. She has been alone all day. You could easily send an excuse, for Mrs. Cheyne must know we are busy.” 146