MISSY

A Novel

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "RUTLEDGE"

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

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

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

CONTENTS.

MISSY.

CHAPTER I.

YELLOWCOATS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words tripped over each other vehemently now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

ST. JOHN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, in the parlor waiting for you."

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

"You are—alone—St. John?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is on the parlor table, miss."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The polished floor was marked with every step.

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

"Is mamma's light burning?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you tell him not to come?"

"Well, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did she write?" asked Missy.

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

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

CHAPTER III.

THE FIRST SERMON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you see I do."

"Maybe you'd do that anywhere."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope they're church people?"

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

"How you do long to reconstruct that household!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lots," said the boy, succinctly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gabby!" repeated her mother.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

GABBY AND JAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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