 5 The rage and sorrow that seethed in Phoebe's soul were such as in some passionate hearts have led to deeds of desperation, and indeed she did feel desperate as she fled along the road pursued by the thought of her sister-in-law's angry words. To have such hurtful words spoken to her and on her birthday, to feel so cornered and badgered, and to have no home where one was welcome save that hateful alternative of going to Hyrum Green's house. Oh, why was it that one had to live when life had become a torture? She had gone a long distance before her mind cleared sufficiently to think where she was going, the sight of a distant red farmhouse made her pause in her wild walk. If she went on she would be seen from the well-watched windows of that red house, and the two women who lived there were noted alike for their curiosity and for their ability to impart news. In sudden panic Phoebe climbed a fence and struck out across the field toward Chestnut Ridge, a small hill rising to the left of the village. There she might hope to be alone a little while and think it out, and perhaps creep close to her mother once more through the letter which she pressed against her heart. She hurried over the rough stubble of the field, gathering her buff garments with her other hand to hold them from any detaining briars. She seemed like some bright golden leaf blowing across the pasture to frolic with the other leaves on the nut-crowned hillside. Breathless at last she reached the hill and found a great log where she sat down to read her letter. "'My dear little grown-up girl,' it began, and as Phoebe read the precious words again, the tears burst from her smarting eyes, welling up from her aching heart, and she buried her face in the letter and stained it with her tears. It was some time before she could conquer herself and read farther. "'This is your eighteenth birthday, dear child, and I have thought so much about you and how you will be when you are a young woman, that I want to be with you a little while on your birthday and let you know how much, how very much I love you. I cannot look forward into your life and see how it will be with you. I do not know whether you will have had sad years or bright ones between the time when I said good-bye to you and now when you are reading this. I could not plan positively, dear little girl, to have them bright ones, else you surely know I would. I had to leave you in God's care, and I know you will be taken care of whatever comes. If there have been trials, somehow, Phoebe little girl, they must have been good for you. Sometime you will learn why, perhaps, and sometimes there will be a way out. Never forget that. God has His brightness ready somewhere for you if you are true to Him and brave. Somehow I am afraid that there will have been trials, perhaps very heavy ones, for you were always such a sensitive little soul, and you are going among people who may not understand. In thinking about your life I have been afraid for you that you would be tempted, because of unhappiness, to take some rash impulsive step before God is ready to show you His plan for your life. I would like to give you a little warning through the years, and tell you to be careful. You have entered young womanhood, and will perhaps be asked to give your life into the keeping of some man. If I were going to live I would try to train you through the years for this great crisis of your life. But when it comes, remember that I have thought about you and longed for you that you may find another soul who will love you better than himself, and whom you can love better than you love anything else in the world, and who will be grand and noble in every way. Dear child, hear your mother's voice, and don't take anything less. It will not matter so much if he is poor, if only he loves you better than himself and is worthy of your love. Never marry anyone for a home, or a chance to have your own way, or freedom from good honest work. There will be no happiness in it. Trust your mother, for she knows. Do not marry anyone to whom you cannot look up and give honor next to God. Unless you marry such a man, it is better not to marry at all. Believe your mother, child. I say it lovingly, for I have seen much sorrow and would protect you. And now, my sweet child, with a face like the dawn of the morning, and eyes so untroubled, if when you read this anything has come into your life to make you unhappy, just try to lay it all down for a little while and feel your mother's love about you. See, I have made this bright sunny dress for you, every stitch set with love, and I want you to wear it on your birthday to remind you of me. It is yellow because that is the glory color, the color of the sunshine I have always loved so much. I want you to think of me in a bright, sunny, happy way, and as in a glory of happiness waiting for you, not as dead and lying in the grave. Think of my love for you as a joy and not a lost one either, for I am sure that where I am going I shall love you just the same and more. I am very tired and must not write any more, for there are other letters yet to write and much to do before I can feel ready to go and leave you. But as I am writing this birthday letter for you, I am praying, God, that he will bring some brightness into your life the beginning of some great joy on this your eighteenth birthday, that shall be his blessing and my birthday gift to my child. I put a kiss here where I write my name and give you with it more love than you can ever understand. Your mother. The tears rained down upon her hands as she held the letter, and when it was finished she put her head down on her lap and cried as she had not cried since her mother died. It seemed as if her head were once more upon that dear mother's lap, and she could feel the smooth, gentle touch of her mother's hand passing over her hair and her hot temples as when she was a little child. The sunlight sifted softly down between the yellowed chestnut leaves, sprinkling gold upon the golden hem of her gown, and glinting on her shining hair. The brown nuts dropped now and then about her, reverently, as if they would not disturb her if they could help it, and the fat gray squirrels silently regarded her, pausing in their work of gathering in the winter's store, then whisked noiselessly away. It was all quite still in the woods except for the occasional falling of a nut, or the stir of a leaf, or the skitter of a squirrel, for Phoebe did not sob aloud. Her grief was deeper than that. Her soul was crying out to one who was far away, and yet who seemed so near to her that nothing else mattered for the time. She was thinking over all her sad little life, telling it to her mother in imagination, trying to draw comfort from the letter and to reconcile the realities with what her mother had said. Would her mother have been just as sure that all would come out right if she had known the real facts? Would she have given the same advice? Carefully she thought it over, washing the anger away in her tears. Yes, she felt sure that if her mother had known all she could not have written more truly than she had done. She would have had her say no to Hyrum just as she had done, and would have exhorted to patience with Emmeline and to trust that brightness would sometime come. She thought of her mother's prayer for her and almost smiled through her tears to think how impossible that could be. Yet the day was not done. Perhaps there might be some little pleasant thing yet that she might consider as a blessing and her mother's gift. She would look and wait for it, and perhaps it would come. It might be Albert would be kind, he was sometimes. Or if it were not too late, she might go down to the village and make her call on Mrs. Bafford. That might be a beautiful thing and the beginning of a joy. But no, that was too far away, and her eyes were red with weeping. She must just take this quiet hour in the woods as her blessing and be glad over it because her mother and God had sent it to her to help her bear the rest of the days. She lifted her tear-wet face to look around upon the golden autumn world, and the sun caught the tears on her lashes and turned them into flashing jewels till the sweet, sad face looked like a tired flower with a dew upon it. Even quite suddenly she knew she was not alone. A young man stood in the shadow of the tallest chestnut tree regarding her with troubled gaze. His hat was in his hand and his head slightly bowed in deference as if in the presence of something holy. He was tall, well-formed, and his face fine and handsome. His eyes were deep and brown with lights in them like those on the shadowed depths of a quiet woodland stream. His heavy dark hair was tossed back from a white forehead that had not been exposed to the summer sun of the hayfield one could see at a glance, and the hand that held the hat was white and smooth also. There was a grace about his attitude that reminded Phoebe of David Bafford, who had seemed to her the ideal of a gentleman. He was dressed in dark brown and his black silk stock set off a finely cut, clean-shaven chin of unusual strength and firmness. If it had not been for the lights in his eyes and the hint of a smile behind the almost tender strength of the lips, Phoebe would have been afraid of him as she lifted shy, ashamed eyes to the intruder's face. I beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude, he said apologetically. But a party of young people are coming up the hill. They will be here in a moment, and I thought perhaps you would not care to meet them. You seem to be in trouble. Oh, thank you! said Phoebe, arising in sudden panic and dropping her mother's letter at her feet. She stooped to pick it up, but the young man had reached at first and their fingers met for one brief instant over the letter of the dead. In her confusion Phoebe did not know what to say but thank you, and then felt like a parrot repeating the same phrase. Things were distinctly audible now, and the girl turned to flee, but ahead and around there seemed nowhere to go for hiding except a dense growth of mountain laurel that still stood green and shining amid the autumn brown. She looked for a way around it, but the young man caught her thought, and reaching forward with a quick motion of his arms, he parted the strong branches and made a way for her. Here, jump right in there, nobody will see you. Hurry, they are almost here! he whispered kindly. The girl sprang quickly on the log, paused just an instant to gather her golden draperies about her, and then fluttered into the green hiding-place and settled down like a drift of yellow leaves. The laurel swung back into place, nodding quite as if it understood the secret. The young man stooped, and she saw him deliberately take from his pocket a letter and put it down behind the log that lay across her hiding-place. The letter settled softly into place and looked at her knowingly, as if it, too, were in the secret and were there to help her, for even a letter has an expression if one has but eyes to see and understand. Up the hillside came a troupe of young people. Phoebe could not see them, for the growth of laurel was very dense, but she could hear their voices. Oh, Janet Bristol, how fast you go! I'm all out of breath. Why do you hurry so? The nuts will keep till we get there, and we have all the afternoon before us. Go as slow as you like, Caroline," said a sweet, imperious voice. When I start anywhere I like to get there. I wonder where Nathaniel can be? It is fully five minutes since he went out of sight, and he promised to hail us at once and tell us the best way to go. Oh, Nathaniel isn't lost," said another girl's voice crossly. He'll take care of himself likely. Don't hurry so, Janet. Maria is all out of breath. Hello, Nathaniel! Nathaniel Graham, where are you? called a chorus of male voices. Then from a few paces in front of the laurel hiding-place came the voice that Phoebe had heard but a moment before. Aye-aye, sir, that way, it called. There are plenty of nuts up there. He stood with his back toward her hiding-place and pointed farther up the hill. Then, laughing, scrambling over slippery leaves and protruding logs, the gay company frolicked past, and Phoebe was left undiscovered, alone with the letter that smiled back at her in a friendly way. She stooped a little to look at it and read the address, Nathaniel Graham Esquire, written in a fine, commanding hand, a chirography that gave the impression of honoring the name it wrote. The girl studied the beautiful name till every turn of the pen was graven on her mind, the fine even clearness of the small letters, the bold downward stroke in the capitals. It was unusual writing of an unusual name, and the girl felt that it belonged to an unusual man. Then all of a sudden, while she waited and listened to the happy jingle of voices, like bells of different tones, exclaiming over rich finds in nuts, the barren loneliness of her own life came over her and brought a rush of tears. Why was she here in hiding from those girls and boys that should have been her companions? Why did she shrink from meeting Janet Bristol the sweetly haughty beauty of the village? Why was she never invited to their pleasant tea-drinkings and their berry and nut-gatherings? She saw them in church, and that was all. They never seemed to see her. True, she had not been brought up from childhood among them, but she had lived there long enough to have known them intimately if her life had not always been so full of care. Janet Bristol had gone away to school for several years, and was only at home in summer when Phoebe's life was full of farm work, cooking for the hands and for the harvesters. But Maria Finch and Caroline Penfield had gone to school with Phoebe. She felt a bitterness that they were in these good times and she was not. They were not to blame, perhaps, for she had always avoided them, keeping much to herself and her studies in school, and hurrying home at Emmeline's strict command. They had never attracted her as had the tall, fair Janet in the few summer glimpses she had had of her. Yet she would never likely know Janet Bristol or come any nearer to her than she was now, hidden behind God's green of laurel on the hillside, while the gay company gathered nuts a few rods away. The young man with the beautiful face and the kind ways would forget her and leave her to scramble out of her hiding-place as best she could, while he helped Janet Bristol over the style and carried her basket of nuts home for her. He would not cross her path again. Nevertheless, she was glad he had met her this once, and she could know there was in the world one so kind and noble. It was a beautiful thing to have come into her life. She would stay here till they were all out of hearing, and then creep out and steal away as she had come. Her sad life and its annoyances, forgotten for the moment, settled down upon her but with this change. They now seemed possible to bear. She could go back to Albert's house, to Emmeline where she was unwelcome, and work her way twice over. She could doff the golden garments and take up her daily toil, even patiently perhaps, and bear Emmeline's hateful insinuations, Alma's impudence, the disagreeable attentions of Hank and the hateful presence of Hyrum Green. But never again would she be troubled with the horrible thought that perhaps after all she was wrong and not to accept the home that Hyrum Green was offering her. Never! for now she had seen a man who had looked at her as she felt sure God meant a man to look at a woman with honor and respect and gentle helpfulness and deference. All at once she knew that her mother's prayer had been answered, and that something beautiful had come into her life. It would not stay and grow as her mother had hoped. This stranger could be nothing to her, but the memory of his helpfulness and the smile of sympathy that had lighted his eyes would remain with her a beautiful joy always. It was something that had come to save her at the moment of her utter despair. Hyrum under the chestnut trees but a few rods away the baskets were being filled rapidly, for the nuts were many and the squirrels had been idle, thinking they owned them all. Nathaniel Graham helped each girl impartially, and seemed to be especially successful in finding the largest and shiniest nuts. The laughing and joking went on, but Nathaniel said little. Phoebe, from her covert, could watch them, and felt that the young man would soon pilot them further away. She could hear bits of their talk. What's the matter with Nathaniel? said Caroline Penfield. He's hardly said a word since we started. What deep subject is your massive mind engaged upon, young man? Oh, Nate is thinking about Texas, said Daniel Westgate flippantly. He has no thoughts or words for anything but setting Texas free. We'll hear of him joining the volunteers to help them fight Mexico the next thing. I wouldn't be one bit surprised. Don't, Daniel, said Janet Bristol sharply. Nathaniel has far more sense than that. I should hope so, echoed Maria Finch. Nathaniel isn't a hot-headed fanatic. Don't be too sure, said the irrepressible Daniel. If you'd heard the fine heroics he was getting off to David Spafford yesterday, you wouldn't be surprised at anything. Speak up, Nate, and tell them whether you are going or not. Perhaps, said Nathaniel, lifting pleasant eyes of amusement towards the company. Nonsense, said Janet sharply, as if he would think of such a thing. Daniel, you ought to be ashamed to spoil the lovely afternoon with talk of politics. Come, let us move on to that next clump of trees. See, it is just loaded, and the nuts are falling with every breath of wind. Just look at that squirrel leaning against his tail as if it were the back of an easy chair. He is mincing away at that nut as daintily as any lady, called Caroline. The merry company picked up baskets and began to move out of sight, but the young man Nathaniel stood still thoughtfully and felt in his pockets, until Phoebe, from her hiding place, could see none of the others. Then she heard him call in a pleasant voice. Janet, I have dropped a letter. It cannot be far away. Go on without me for a moment. I will be with you right away." Then came Janet's sweet, vexed tones. Oh, Nathaniel, how tiresome! Can't you let it go? Was it of any consequence? Shall we come and help you find it? No, Janet, thank you. I know just where I dropped it, and I will be with you again before you have missed me. Keep right on." Then he turned swiftly and came back to the laurel before the startled Phoebe, who had intended running away at once, could realize that he was coming. She sprang up with the instinct of fleeing from him, but as if the laurel were loathed apart from her it reached out detaining fingers and caught her by the strands of her fine brown hair, and down came the soft, shining waves of hair, in shameless, lovely disorder about the flushed face, and rippling far below the waist of the buff frock. The sun caught it and kissed it into a thousand lights and shadows of brown and red and purple and gold. A strand here and there clung to the laurel as if the charm were mutual, and made a fine veil of spun gold before her face. Thus she stood abashed, with her hair unbound before the stranger, her face in a beautiful confusion. Now this young man had gazed upon many a maiden's hair with entire indifference. In the days of his boyhood he had even dared to attach a paper kite to the yellow braids of a girl who sat in front of him in school, and laughed with the rest at recess, as after carefully following her with hidden kite and wound up cord, they had succeeded in launching the paper thing in the breeze till it lifted the astonished victim's yellow plates high in air, and she cried out angrily upon them. He had even pulled many a girl's hair. He had watched his cousin Janet brush and plate and curl her abundant locks into the various changing fashions, and criticized the effect freely. He had once untied a hard knot in a bonnet string among a mass of golden curls without a thrill. Why, therefore, did he feel such awe as he approached in deep embarrassment to offer his assistance? Why did his fingers tremble as he laid them reverently upon a strand of hair that had tangled itself in the laurel? Why did it bring a fine ecstasy into his being as the wind blew it across his face? Did all hair have that delicate, indescribable perfume about it? When he had set her free from the entangling bushes, he marveled at the dexterity with which she reduced the flying hair to order and imprisoned it meekly. It seemed like magic. Then before she had time to spring out of her covert, he took her hands firmly, reverently, without undue familiarity, and helped her to the top of the log and thence to the ground. She liked him for the way he did it, so different from the way the other men she knew would have done it. She shuddered to think if it had been hank or hyrum green. Come this way, it is nearer to the road. He said quietly, parting the branches at his right to let her pass. And when she had gone a few steps, behold, not two rods below lay the cross-road, which met the highway by which she had come a quarter of a mile further on. But you have forgotten your letter, she turned to say, as they came out of the woods and began to descend the hill. And I can get out quite well now. You have been very kind. I will get the letter presently, he said with a smile. Just let me help you over the fence. I want to ask your pardon for my intrusion. I did not see you at first. The woods were so quiet and you looked so much like the yellow leaves that lay all about. And his eyes cast an admiring glance at the buff marino. Oh, it was not an intrusion. She exclaimed, her cheeks rosy with the remembrance. And I am so grateful to you for telling me they were coming. I would not have liked to be found there, so. She looked shyly up. I thank you very much. He saw that her eyes were beautiful, with ripples of laughter and shadows of sorrow in their glance. He expressed a deep and unnecessary satisfaction that his first impression of her face was verified, and he stood looking down upon her as if she were something he was proud of having discovered and rescued from an unpleasant fate. Phoebe felt a warm glow like sunshine breaking over her in the kindness of his look. Don't thank me, he said. I felt like a criminal intruding so upon your trouble. But you must not feel so. It was only that I had been reading a letter from my mother and it made me feel so lonely that I cried. That is trouble enough, he said, with quick sympathy. Is your mother away from home, or are you? My mother is dead. She has been gone a good many years. She said with quivering lips. She wrote this letter long ago for me to read today, and I came away here by myself to read it. Now you will understand. He had helped her over the rail fence that separated the field from the road, and they were standing, she on the roadside, he on the fieldside of the fence as they talked. Neither of them saw a farm wagon coming down the road over the brow of the hill, a mere speck against the autumn sky when they came out of the woods. The young man's face kindled as he answered. Thank you for telling me. Yes, now I will understand. My mother has been gone a long time too. I wish she had written a letter for me to read today. Then as if he knew he must not stay longer, he lifted his hat, smiled, and walked quickly up the hill, while Phoebe sped swiftly down the road, not noticing the glories of the day, nor thinking so much of her own troubles, but marveling at what had happened, and living it all over once more in imagination. She knew without thinking that a wagon was rumbling nearer and nearer, but she gave it no heed. Nathaniel Graham, when he reached the edge of the wood, turned and looked back down the road, saw the girl in her yellow draperies moving in the autumn sunshine, and watched her intently. The driver of the farm wagon, now almost opposite to him, watched glumly from behind his bags of wheat, high piled, sneered under his breath at the fine attire, half-guessed who he was, then wondered who the girl was who kept trist so far from any houses, and with a last glance at the man just vanishing into the woods, he whipped up his team, resolved to find out. CHAPTER VI Nathaniel Graham went to pick up the letter he had left behind the log, but as he did so his eye caught something brown lying on the ground among the laurel near the letter. He reached out and took it. It was a bit of a bow of brown velvet, and seemed strangely a part of the girl who had been there but a few moments before. What part had this bit of velvet played in her makeup? Had it been worn at her throat or in her wonderful hair? He never doubted that it was hers. As he raised it wonderingly in his hand to look at it more closely, he fancied he caught the same subtle fragrance that had been in her hair. His fingers closed pleasantly about the soft little thing. For a moment he pondered whether he ought to go after her and give it to her. Then farther up the hill he heard the voices calling him, and with a pleasant smile he tucked it into his inner pocket beside the letter that had played so important a part in the little affair. He rather liked to think that he had that bit of velvet himself, and perhaps it was not of much value to the owner. It might at least make another opportunity of seeing her. And so he passed on up the hill with something besides the freedom of Texas to think upon. Meantime the load of wheat went down the road after Phoebe at a lively pace, and its driver, in no pleasant mood because he had been all the way to Albany with his wheat and had been unable to sell it, studied the graceful sunlit figure ahead of him, and wondered what there was about it so strangely familiar. Phoebe had just reached the high road and paused to think which way she would go when the wagon overtook her, and turning with her face bright with pleasure and momentary forgetfulness, she faced the lowering astonishment of Hyrum Green. Her face grew deadly white with the revulsion, and she caught at the fence to steady herself. She felt as if the earth were reeling under her unprotected feet. One hand flew to her heart and her frightened eyes, with a wild thought of her late protector, sought the way by which she had come, but the hillside lay unresponsive in the late sunshine and not a soul was to be seen. Nathaniel Graham had just picked up his cousin Janet's basket. Well, I swore, said Hyrum Green, pulling his horses up sharply. It ain't you tricked out that way away off here! Then slowly his little pig eyes traveled to the lonely hillside, gathered up an idea, came back to the girl's guilty face, and narrowed to a hateful slit through which shone a gleam of something that might be likely to illumine outer darkness. He brought his thin, cruel lips together with satisfaction. He felt that at last he had a hold upon the girl, but he would wait and use it to his best advantage. She poor child never dreamed that he had seen the young man with her, and was only frightened for the moment with instinctive dread of being alone in an unfrequented spot with him. In an instant her courage came to her aid, and she steadied her voice to reply naturally. Oh, is that you, Mr. Green? You almost frightened me. I was taking a walk and did not expect to see any one I knew. This is the Albany road, isn't it? Have you been to Albany? Her unusually friendly tones threw the man off his guard for a moment. He could not resist the charm of having her speak so pleasantly to him. Yes, been to Albany on business, he responded. Won't you get up and ride? Taint a very pretty seat, but I guess it's clean and comfortable. Sorry I ain't got the carry-all. You're a long piece from home. Oh, thank you, Mr. Green, she said cordially. I'm sure the seat would be very comfortable and just as nice as the carry-all, but I'm out taking a walk this beautiful afternoon, and I'm enjoying every minute of it. I would much rather walk. Besides, I'm not going directly home. I may stop at Granny McVanes and perhaps another place before I get home. Thank you for the invitation. Even without waiting for a reply, she flew lightly in front of the horses and sped up the main highway toward the old red farmhouse. It was not the direction she would have chosen, but there was no time to do anything else, and her frightened heart gave wings to her feet. She dared not look behind lest she was being pursued. Hyrum Green, thus left alone after his attempt at gallantry, looked after the flying maiden with venom in his little eyes. His mouth hardened once more into its cruel lines, and he took up the reins again and said to his horses in no pleasant tones, Galang there! Pointing his remark with a stinging cut of the whip which made the weary beasts leap forward at a lively gait. He did not watch Phoebe any longer, but once he turned his head and looked threateningly at the barren hillside, and shook his fist that held his whip in a menacing way. When Phoebe neared the old red house where lived the two women who always saw and enlarged and told everything, she noted with relief that the shades were drawn down, and there was a general air of not-at-homeness about the place that betokened the inhabitants were away for the afternoon. With joy she went on by the house and turned down another cross-road which would lead to a second road going into the village. On this road, just on the border of the town, lived Granny McVane all alone, safe for her silent old husband. She was a sweet old lady whom care and disappointment had not hardened, but only made more humble and patient. Phoebe had been there on occasional errands, and her kindness had won the girl's heart. From Granny McVane's it would be but a short run home across the fields, and she would thus escape meeting any more prying eyes. She was not accustomed to making calls on the neighbors without an errand, but the fancy came to her now that she would just stop and ask how Granny's rheumatism was and wish her good day. Perhaps, if she seemed glad to see her, she might tell her it was her birthday, and this was the frock her mother had made. The girl had a longing to confide in someone. As she walked along the country road, she began to think of home and the inevitable black looks that would be hers from Emmeline. But the day was good yet, though a chill was creeping into the air that made her cheeks tingle. The sun was dropping low now, and the rays were glowing deeper. The stubble in the cornfields that she passed was bathed in its light. The buff merino was touched with a ruddy glow, and the girl, as she sped along, seemed like a living topaz in the golden setting of the day. She reached the little double door of Granny McVane's cottage and knocked. The old lady, in her white ruffled cap with its black band, and soft kerchief folded across her bosom, opened the upper half of the door, and on seeing Phoebe opened the lower door too, and brought her in most cordially. She made her sit down and looked her over with delight, her old eyes glowing with pleasure at the sweet picture the girl made sitting in the flowered calico rocking chair. She seemed to catch the long sun beams that slanted low across the kitchen floor, and reflect them with her gown and face till all the little room was filled with sunny brightness. She made Phoebe tell about the frock her birthday, her mother's letter, and her walk, and then she told her she must stay to tea with her, for the squire was off to Albany on business and would not be back that night. The old cat was winking cordially before the hearth, the pot of mush was sputtering sleepily on its crane over the fire, the kettle was singing cheerily beside it, and the old lady's face was so wistful that Phoebe put by her thought of home and the supper that she ought to be getting this minute, and decided to stay just for once as it was her birthday. The stiff white curtains shut the little room in cosily from the outside world, and a scarlet geranium bloomed happily on the broad window seat. Phoebe looked around at the polished old mahogany and the shining pewter dishes that adorned the shelf, touched the drowsy cat with gentle fingers that brought forth a purr, glanced up at the great old clock with its measured, unhurried tick-tock, tick-tock, and felt like a person who has turned her back upon life and all its duties, and abandoned herself to pleasure pure and simple. Yes, for one short hour more she would have what her day offered her of joy, without a thought of trouble, and then she would go back to her duty and cherish the memory of her pleasure. Thus did Phoebe give herself over to the wild excitement of a birthday tea at Granny McVane's cottage. Precisely at five o'clock the little round table was drawn out from the wall, and its leaves put up. A snow-white homespun cloth was laid upon it, and lovely blue dishes of quaint designs in blue set upon it. A bowl, a plate, cup and saucer for each. Steel knives, a great pitcher of creamy milk, a pad of Granny's delicious butter, a pitcher of sugar-house molasses, looking like distilled drops of amber and delectable to the taste. A plate of shining brown rusks, a loaf of soft gingerbread, rich and dark like brown velvet. Then the tea was made in the little brown earthenware teapot, the great bowl of yellow mush taken up, and no modern debutante's dinner party, with its hand-painted dinner cards, its berebbed favors, its flowers and its carefully planned menu, could have a lovely or color scheme, or one that better fitted the gown of the guest of honor, than was set forth for Phoebe Dean's birthday tea, all yellows and beautiful browns, with the last rays of the setting sun over all. The lazy cat got up, stretched and yawned, and came over by the table as they sat down. The cat, by the way, was yellow, too. It was a delicious meal, and Phoebe ate it with the appetite gained in her long walk. After it was over, she bade Granny McVane good evening, kissed her for the beautiful ending to her birthday, and hurried guiltily across the fields to the farmhouse she called home, not allowing herself to think of what was before her until she reached the very door, for she would not have one moment of her precious day spoiled. The family had just sat down to supper when Phoebe opened the door and came in. She had hoped this ceremony would be over, for the usual hour for supper was half past five, but Emmeline had waited longer than usual, thinking Phoebe would surely come back to help, and having it all to do herself had not been able to get it ready as soon as usual. Moreover, an undertone of apprehension as to what Albert might say if Phoebe should be headstrong enough to remain away after dark, kept her going to the window to look up the road for the possible sight of a girlish figure in a curious yellow frock. Emmeline had been angry, astonished, and bewildered all the afternoon. She had not been able to decide what she would do about the way her young sister-in-law had acted. She had been a little anxious too, lest she had gone too far and would be blamed if the truth should be known. She would have been glad, many times during the afternoon, to have seen Phoebe meekly returning, but now that she had come, after staying away until the work was done, and Albert had come home and found out her absence, Emmeline's wrath was kindled anew. She stood at the hearth taking up the second pan of Johnny cake when the girl came in, and when she saw Phoebe apparently as cheerful as if she had stayed at home and done her duty all the afternoon, Emmeline set her lips in cold and hotty disapproval. Alma, with her mouth full of fried potatoes, stopped her fork midway with another supply, and stared. The little boys chorished in unison. Hello on, Phoebe, where did you get the clothes? Hank, who was just helping himself to a slice of bread with his fork, turned full around, and after the first glimpse of the girl in her unfamiliar garments he sat in odd embarrassment. Only Albert sat in pleased surprise. His knife and fork akimbo on his plate, his chair tipped back, and a look of real welcome in his face. Well now, Phoebe, I'm real glad you've got back. I was getting uneasy about you off so long. It isn't like you to stay away from your meals. My, but you do look pretty in that rig. What took you, anyway? Where have you been? Not to the others, which he have told for the world, but somehow Albert's pleasant tones and kindly eyes unsealed her lips, and without a thought she spoke. I've just been for a walk in the woods this afternoon, and I stopped a few minutes to see Granny McVane. She made me stay to tea with her. I did not mean to stay so late. That sounds very sweet, I'm sure. Broken Emmeline's sharp voice. But she forgets that she left me with all her work to do on top of my own. Phoebe's cheeks flushed. I am sorry I did not get back in time to help with supper. She said, looking straight at Albert, as if explaining to him alone. But it was my birthday, and I thought I might take a little time to myself. Your birthday? To be sure you can. You don't go out half enough. Emmeline, you wouldn't want her to work all day on her birthday, of course. Sit down, child, and have some more supper. This is real good, Johnny Cake. Have a piece? You ought to have told us before that you had a birthday, and then we might have celebrated. Eh, Hank, what do you say? I say yes, said Hank, chuckling in a vain endeavour to regain his usual composure. He had visions of a certain red ribbon at the village store that he might have bought her, or a green glass breast-pin. He watched her furtively and wondered if it was too late yet to improve the occasion. Other people have birthdays, too, and I don't see much fuss made over them, either. Sniffed Emmeline, flinging the tea towel up to its nail with an impatient movement. She had burned her finger and her temper burned in sympathy. Thank you, Albert, said Phoebe quietly. I don't care for any more supper. I will go up and change my frock and be ready to wash the dishes. She was going toward the door, but Albert detained her. Wait, Phoebe, you come here and sit down. I've got something to tell you. I'd clean forgot about the birthday myself, but now I remember all right. Let's see, you're eighteen today, aren't you? I thought so. Hank lifted bold, admiring eyes to her face, and the girl, standing patiently behind her chair at the table, waiting for her brother to finish, felt she would like to extinguish him for a little while till the conference was over. Well, no, child, I've got a surprise for you. You're eighteen and of age, so you've got a right to know it. Wouldn't it be better for you to tell me by and by when the work is done? pleaded Phoebe, casting a frightened glance about on the wide-eyed, interested audience. No, said Albert, genially, looking about the room. It isn't a secret, least ways not from any that's here. You needn't look so scared, child. It's only that there's a little money coming to you, about five or six hundred dollars. It's a nice, tidy little sum for a girl eighteen with good prospects. You certainly deserve it, for you've been a good girl ever since you came to live with us. Your mother wanted me to keep the money for you till you was eighteen, and then she said you would know how to use it and be more likely to need it. Say Aunt Phoebe, broken Alma, tilting her turn-up nose to its most inquisitive point, and sticking out her chin in a grown-up manner she had copied after her mother. Does Hiram Green know you got a birthday? Shut up! said Amaline, applying the palm of her hand in a stinging slap to her offspring's cheek. Sister, sister! said Albert in gentle reproof. Now, Amaline, don't be so severe with the child. She doesn't realize how impertinent she is. Sister, you mustn't talk like that to Aunt Phoebe. Then in an aside to hank with a wink, it does beat all how keen children will be sometimes. Phoebe, with scarlet cheeks, felt as if she could bear no more. Thank you, Albert, she said, with a voice that would tremble despite her best efforts. Now if you will excuse me, I'll change my frock. Wait a minute, child, that's a mighty pretty frock you've got on. Look pretty as a peach in it. Let's have a look at you. Where'd you get it? Make it yourself. Mother made it for me to wear today. Said Phoebe in a low voice, and then she vanished into the hall, leaving somehow an impression of victory behind her, and a sense of embarrassment among the family. There'll be no living with her now, snapped Amaline over the tea cups. I'm sure I thought you had better sense. You never told me there was any money left for her, or I'd have advised you about it. It wasn't necessary to tell her anything about it. I'm sure we've spent for her, and if there's anything left her, it belongs to you. Here she's had a good home, and paid not a cent for it, and had everything just the same as us. If she had any spirit of right, she wouldn't touch a cent of that money. Now look here, Amaline. Said Albert in his kind conciliatory tone. You don't quite understand this matter. Not having known about it before, of course you couldn't judge rightly. And as it was her ma's request that I didn't tell anybody, I couldn't very well tell you. Besides, I don't see why it should affect you any. The money was hers, and we'd nothing to do with it. As for her home here, she's been very welcome, and I'm sure she's earned her way. She's a good worker, Phoebe is. That's so she is, assented Hank warmly. I don't know a girl in the country that can beat her work in. I don't know as anybody asked your opinion, Hank Williams. I'm able to judge of work a little myself. And if she works well, who taught her? She'd never done a stroke when she came here, and nobody thinks of the hard time I've had breaking her in, and putting up with her mistakes when she was young in her hands lily white, and soft as a baby's. Now, Amaline, don't go and get excited. Said Albert anxiously. You know we ain't letting go of might of what you've done. Only it's fair to the girl to say she's earned her way. Hmm! said Amaline contemptuously. That depends on who's the judge. Won't Aunt Phoebe do any more work now she's got some money ma? Broken Alma in a panic of what might be the possibilities in store for her small selfish self. Haven't I told you to keep still Alma? Reproved her mother angrily. If you say another word I'll send you to bed without any cake. At this dire threat Alma retired temporarily from the conversation till the cake should be passed and a kind of family gloom settled over the room. Hank felt the constraint and made haste to bolt the last of his supper and escape. Phoebe came down shortly afterward, attired in her everyday garb and looking meekly sensible. Albert felt somehow a relief to see her so, though he protested weakly. Say Phoebe, it's too bad for you to wash dishes your birthday night. You go back and put on your pretty things, and Alma'll help her ma wash up this time. No she won't either, broken Amaline. Alma ain't a bit well and she's not going to be made to work at her age unless she likes. Here, honey, you may have this piece of ma's cake, she don't want it all. It seems to me you're kind of an unnatural father Albert Dean. I guess it won't hurt Phoebe to wash a few dishes when she's been lying round having a good time all day, while I've worked my fingers half off doing her work. We've all had to work on our birthdays, and I guess if Phoebe's going to stay here she'll have to put up with what the rest of us gets, unless she's got money to pay for better. With that Albert looked helplessly about the room and retired to his newspaper in the sitting room, while Phoebe went swiftly about the usual evening work. Amaline yanked the boys away from the cake plate, and marched them and Alma out of the kitchen with her head held high and her chin in the air. She did not even do the usual little duties of putting away the cake and bread and pickles and jelly, but left it all for Phoebe. Of this Phoebe was glad. Before the dishes were quite done, the front door opened and Hyrum Green sauntered into the living room. Phoebe heard him and hurried to hang up her dish towels and flee to her own room. And thus ended the birthday, though the girl lay awake far into the night, thinking over all its wonderful happenings, and not allowing her mind to dwell upon the possibilities of trouble in the future. When little Rose Bafford was born, the sweet girl mother, who had been Marsha Schuyler, found no one so helpful and reliable in the whole town as Miranda Griscombe, granddaughter and household drudge of her next door neighbor, Mrs. Heath. David Spafford borrowed her for the first three or four weeks, and Mrs. Heath gave reluctant consent because the Heaths and the Spaffords had always been intimate friends. But Grandma Heath realized during that time just how many steps the eccentric Miranda saved her, and she began to look forward to her return with more eagerness than she cared to show. Miranda, as she reveled in doing as she pleased in the large well-furnished kitchen of the Spafford house, using the best sprigged china to send a pretty tray upstairs to Mrs. Spafford, used often to look triumphantly over toward her grandmother's house and wonder if she was missed. One little gleam of appreciation would have started a flame of abounding love in the queer, lonely heart of Miranda. But the grim grandmother never appreciated anything that this unloved grandchild, the daughter of an undesired son-in-law, tried to do. As the delightful days sped by in loving service, Miranda began to dread the time when she must go back to her grandmother's house again, and Marsha and David dreaded it also. They set about planning how they might keep her, and presently they had it all arranged. David suggested it first. It was while they both hung over the little rose's cradle, watching her wake up, like the opening of the little bud she was. Miranda had come to the door for a direction, and stood a moment remarking, I thought I'd find you two a worship in, just keep right on, my heart's with you, I'll see to supper, don't you give it a thought. And then a moment later they heard her high, nasal tones voicing something about a sweet, sweet rose on a garden wall. And they smiled at the quaint, loving soul. Then David spoke. Marsha, we must contrive to keep her here. She has blossomed out in the last month. It would be cruel to send her back to that dismal house over there again. They don't need her in the least with Hannah's cousin there all the time. I mean to offer her wages to stay with us. You are not strong enough to care for baby and do the housework anyway, and I would feel safer about you if Miranda were here. Wouldn't you like her? Marsha's sweet laugh rang out. Oh, David, you will spoil me! I'm sure I'm perfectly able to do the work and look after this wee flower. But of course I'd like to have Miranda here. I think it would be a good thing if she could get away from her surroundings, and she is a comfort to me in a good many ways. Then it is subtle, dear, said David, with his most loving smile. Oh, but David, what will Aunt Amelia say, and Aunt Hortense? Think! They will tell me I am weak, or proud, which would be worse yet. What does it matter what my aunts think? We are certainly free to do as we please in our own home, and I'm sure of one thing, and Clarenda will think it is all right. She'll be quite pleased. Besides, I shall explain to Aunt Hortense that I want to have you more to myself and take you with me often, and therefore it is my own selfishness not yours that makes me do this. She will listen to that argument, I am sure. Marsha smiled half doubtfully. And then there is Mrs. Heath. She will never consent. Leave that to me, my little wife, and don't worry about it. Let us first settle it with Miranda. Oh, but if Mrs. Heath wouldn't hear to it, Miranda would be so disappointed, suggested Marsha. Just then Miranda presented herself at the door. Your supper's spoiling on the table. Will you two just walk down and eat it while I have my try at that baby? I haven't seen scarcely a wink of her all this blessed day. Miranda, said David, not looking at his wife's warning eyes, would you be willing to stay with us all together? Hmm, said Miranda, just give me the try and see. And she stooped over the cradle with such a wistful longing in her gaze that the young mother's heart went out to her with a real love. Very well, Miranda, then we'll consider it a bargain. I'll pay you wages so that we shall feel quite comfortable about asking you to do anything, and you shall call this your home from now on. What! gasped the astonish girl, straightening up. Did you mean what you said? I never knew you to do a mean thing like tease anyone, David Spafford, but you can't mean what you say. It couldn't come around so nice as that for me. Don't go to talk about wages. I'd work from morning to night for one chance at that blessed baby there in the cradle, but I know it can't be. The supper grew quite cold while they were persuading her that it was all true and that they really wanted her, and while they talked over the possibilities of having trouble with her grandmother. But at last, with her sandy eyelashes wet with tears of joy and hope, Miranda went downstairs and heated the supper all over again for them, and the two upstairs, beside the little bud of life that had bloomed for them, rejoiced that a heart so faithful and true would be her watchful attendant through babyhood. Perhaps it was with a feeling that he desired to burn his bridges behind him before his maiden aunts should hear of the new arrangement, that David went over to see old Mrs. Heath that very evening. Perhaps it was to relieve the excitement of poor Miranda, who felt that though heaven had opened before her, it could not really be for her, and was counting on being put out of her Eden at once. No one but Marsha ever heard what passed between David and old Mrs. Heath, and no one else quite knows what arguments he used to finally bring the determined old woman to terms. Miranda, with her nose flattened against the windowpane of the dark kitchen chamber, watched the two blurred figures in the candlelight of Grandmother Heath's setting room, wondered and prayed and hoped and feared, and prayed again. It was well that David had gone over to see Mrs. Heath that night and made all arrangements, if he cared to escape criticism from his relatives. It was the very next afternoon that Miss Amelia, on her daily visit to the shrine of her new grand-nice, remarked, Well, Marsha, has Miranda gone home yet? I should think her grandmother would need her, all this time away, poor old lady, and you're perfectly strong enable now to attend to your own work again. Marsha's fair face flushed delicately, and she gathered her baby closer, as if to protect her from the chill that would follow the words that she must speak. Why, Aunt Amelia, she said brightly, what do you think? Miranda is not going home at all. David has a foolish notion that he wants her to stay with me and help look after baby. Besides, he wants me to go with him as I have been doing. I told him it was not necessary, but he wanted it, so he has arranged it all, and Mrs. Heath has given her consent. Miranda, stay here! The words fell like long-slanting icicles that seemed to pierce as they fell. They lingered in the air until their full surprise and displeasure could be distinctly felt, and then followed more. I am surprised at you, Marsha. I thought you had more self-respect than that. It is a disgrace to a young strong woman to let her husband hire a girl to do her work while she gads about the country and leaves her house and her young child. If your own mother had lived, she would have taught you better than that. And then, Miranda, of all people to select, the child of a renegade, a waif dependent, utterly thankless and irresponsible. She is scatterbrained and untrustworthy. If you needed anyone at any time to sit with the child while you were out for a legitimate cause to pay a call or make an occasional visit, either Hortense or I would be glad to come and relieve you. Indeed you must not think of leaving this wild good for nothing Miranda Griscum with my nephew's child. I shall speak to my sister Hortense, and we will make it our business to come down every day, one or the other of us, and do anything that you find your strength is unequal to doing. We are still strong enough, I hope, to do anything for the family honour. I should be ashamed to have it known that David Spafford's wife was such a weakling that she had to have hired help in. The young wives of our family have always been proud of their housekeeping. Now Miranda Griscum, whatever might be said of her other virtues, had no convictions against eavesdropping, and in the case of this particular collar she felt it most necessary to serve her mistress in any way she could. She was keen enough to know that Miss Amelia would by no means be in favour of her advent in David Spafford's household, and she felt that her beloved mistress would have to bear some persecution on her account. She therefore resolved that, come what might, she would be on hand to protect her. So, soon after the good aunt was seated in state with Marcia in the large front bedroom where the cradle was established, and which had become the centre of the little household since Rose Spafford's birth, Miranda soft-stepping approached the door and applied her ear to the generous crack. She could feel the subject of herself coming on, and her ready brain had devised a plan by which she thought she could relieve the pressure if it should become unduly heavy upon Marcia at any time. So, just as Marcia lifted her face, white with control, and tried to take the angry flash out of her eyes, and think what to reply to her tormentor. Miranda, without ceremony of approach, burst into the room exclaiming, Oh, Miss Amelia, excuse me for interrupting, but did your nice old grey cat maybe follow you down here, and could it have been her out on our front porch fighting with Bob Sykes's yellow dog? Cause F. Tiz, something ought to be done right off, or he'll make hash out of her. Suppose you come down and look, I wouldn't want to make a mistake about it. Miss Amelia placed her hand upon her heart, and looked helplessly at Marcia for an instant. Oh, my dear, you don't suppose— She began in a trembling voice, quite unlike her usual tones. Then she gathered up her shawl, which had slipped off her shoulders, and utterly unheating that her bonnet was a rye, she hurried down the stairs after the sympathetic Miranda. Come right out here, softly, Miranda said, opening the front door cautiously. Why, they must have gone around the house. The old lady followed the girl out on the porch, and together they looked on both sides of the house, but there was no trace of dog or cat, any more than if, like the gingham dog in the calico cat of latter days, they had eaten each other up. Where could they have gone? inquired Miranda excitedly. Maybe I ought to just called you and stayed here and watched, but I was afraid to wake baby. You don't suppose that cat would have run home, and he after her? Is that them up the street? Don't you see a whirl of dust in the road? Would you like me to go and see? Because I'm most afraid if she's tried to run home, for Bob Sykes, he's trained that dog to run races, and he's a terrible fast runner, and your cat is getting on in years. It might go hard with her. Miranda's sympathetic tone quite excited the old lady, whose old gray cat was very dear to her, being the last descendant of an ancient line of cats, traditional in the family. No, Miranda, you just stay right here. Mrs. Bafford might need you after all this excitement. Tell her not to worry until I know the worst. I will go right home and see if anything has happened to Matthew. It really would be very distressing to me and my sister. If he has escaped from that dog, he will need attention. Just tell Mrs. Bafford I will come down or send Hortense to-morrow, as I promised. And the dignified old lady hurried off up the village street, for once unmindful of her dignity. Miranda, called Marcia, when she had waited a reasonable time for the aunt's return, and not even the girl presented herself. Miranda appeared in a minute, with meek yet triumphant mean. Marcia's eyes were laughing, but she tried to look grave. Miranda, she began, trying to suppress the merriment in her voice. Did you really see that cat out there? Miranda put on a dogged air and hesitated for a reply. Well, I heard a dog bark, she began. Miranda was that quite honest, protested Marcia, who felt she ought to try to improve the moral standard of the girl, thus under her charge and influence. I don't see anything wrong with that, asserted Marcia. I didn't say a word that wasn't true. I'm always careful about that, since I see how much you think of such things. I asked her if it might have been her cat, and how did I know but twas. And it would be easy to have been Bob Sykes's dog, if she was round. For that dog never lets a cat come on this block. Anyway, I heard a dog bark, and I thought it sounded like Bob's dog's voice. I'm pretty good on sounds. But you shouldn't frighten Aunt Amelia, she's an old lady, and it isn't good for old people to get frightened. You know she thinks a great deal of her cat. Well, it ain't good for you to be badgered, and Mr. David told me to look after you, and I'm doing it the best way I know how. If I don't do it right, I suppose you'll send me back to Grandma's, and then he'll take care of that blessed baby. When Marcia told it all to David, he left until the tears came. Good for Miranda, he said. She'll do, and Aunt Amelia'll never know what happened to poor old Matthew, who was probably sitting quietly by the hearth purring out his afternoon nap. Well, little girl, I'm glad you didn't have to answer Aunt Amelia's questions. Leave her to me. I'll shoulder all the blame and exonerate you. Don't worry. But David, began Marcia in her troubled tone. Miranda ought not to tell things that are not exactly true. How can I teach her? Well, Miranda's standards are not exactly right, and we must try little by little to raise them higher. But I'll miss my guess if she doesn't manage some way to protect you, even if she does have to tell the truth. And thus it was that Miranda Griscum became a fixture in the household of David Spafford, and did about as she pleased with her master and mistress and the baby, because she usually pleased to do pretty well. The years had gone by, and little Rose Spafford had grown into a lovely, laughing, dimpled child with charming ways that reminded one of her mother, and Miranda was her devoted slave. On the Sunday after Phoebe Dean's birthday, David and Marcia and Rose and Miranda were all in church together. Little Rose, in dainty pantalettes and frock, with her rebellious curls brushed smoothly, her fat hands folded demirally in her lap, sat between her mother and Miranda, and waited for the sugared caraway seeds that she knew would be sure to be dropped occasionally into her nicely starched lap if she were good. David sat at the end of his pew, happy and devout, with Marcia, sweet and worshipful beside him, and Miranda alert, one eye on her worship, the other on what might happen about her, or was it quaint soul, but her way of watching for an opportunity to do good in her way. Across the aisle the sweet face of Phoebe Dean attracted her attention. It was clouded with trouble. Miranda's keen eyes read that at once. Miranda had often noticed that about Phoebe Dean, and wondered, but there were so many other people that Miranda knew better to look after, that Phoebe Dean had here too for not received her undivided attention. But this particular morning Phoebe looked so pretty in her buff merino, which after much hesitation she had finally put on for church, because her old church dress was so exceedingly shabby, that Miranda was all attention at once. Miranda, who had always been homely and red-haired and freckled, whose clothes had most of then been made over from Hannah Heath's cast-off wardrobe, yet loved beautiful things and beautiful people, and Phoebe, with her brown hair and deep, starry eyes, seemed like a lovely picture to her in the buff merino, and with her face framed in its neat straw bonnet. The bonnet Miranda had seen for two or three summers past, but the frock was new and a thing of beauty. Therefore she studied its every detail and rejoiced that her position in the pew gave her a pretty good view of the young girl across the aisle, for something was wrong with the hinge of the door of Albert Dean's pew, and it stood open wide. As her eyes traveled over Phoebe's frock, they came finally to the face, so grave and sweet and troubled, as if already life was too filled with perplexities to have much joy left in it. Her keen gaze detect the droop to the pretty lips and the dark lines under the eyes, and then she looked at the sharp lines of Amaline's sour face with its thin, pursed lips, and decided that Amaline was not a pleasant woman to live with. Alma, preening herself in her Sunday clothes with her self-conscious smirk, was not a pleasant child either, and she wondered if Phoebe could possibly take any pleasure in putting on her little garments for her and planning surprises and plays the way she did for Rose. It seemed impossible. Miranda the homely looked down tenderly at the little Rose, and then gratefully toward David and Marsha at the end of the pew, and pitted the beautiful Phoebe, wishing for her the happiness that had come into her own barren life. The service was about to commence when Judge Bristol, with his daughter Janet and her cousin Nathaniel Graham, walked up the aisle to their pew just in front of Albert Dean's. Now there had been much debate in the heart of Phoebe Dean about coming to church that morning, for she could not keep out of her mind the thought of the stranger who had been so kind to her but a few days before, and it was impossible not to wonder if he would be there, and whether he would see her and speak to her. It was in order to crucify this thought that she had half made up her mind not to wear the buff merino to church, and then nature triumphed and she put it on, realizing that her mother had made it for her to wear, and that she had a perfect right to wear it, though Emmeline should disapprove. And Emmeline had disapproved in no uncertain tones. When she came downstairs ready for church, Emmeline lifted her disagreeable eyebrows and exclaimed, You're not going to wear that ridiculous rig to church, I hope. I should think you'd be ashamed to be decked out like that in the house of God. I'd sooner stay at home. And poor Phoebe would gladly have stayed at home if it had not been that Hink would have been there, and that she would have had to explain her reasons to Albert. I suppose she wants people to know she's rich, piped in Alma after a pause. This reference to her poor little pittance had been made almost hourly since Albert had told her of it, and it was growing unbearable to Phoebe. All together it was not with a very happy heart that she rode to church that morning, and she was half ashamed of herself for that undeniable wish to see the stranger once more. When she got out of the cariol at the church she would not look around nor even lift her eyes to see who was standing by the door. She had resolved not to think about him. If he came up the aisle she would not know it, and her eyes should be otherwise occupied. No one should dare to say she was watching for him. Nevertheless, as Janet and her cousin came up the aisle, Phoebe knew by the wild little beating of her heart that he was coming, and she commanded her eyes most strenuously that they should not lift from the psalm book she had opened, albeit upside down. Yet in spite of all resolves, when the occupants of the Bristol pew had entered it and were about to sit down, and while Nathaniel Graham stood so that his head and shoulders were just above the top of the high back pew, those truant eyes fluttered up for one instance glance, and in that instant were caught and held by the eyes of the young man in front in pleased recognition. Twas but a flash, and Phoebe's eyes were back upon her book, and the young man was seated in the pew with only the top of his fine dark head showing. Yet the pretty color flew into the cheek of the girl, and in the eyes of the young man there was a light of satisfaction that lasted all through the service. The glance had been too brief for any actual act of recognition, like a bow or a smile, and neither would it have been in place, for the whole audience would have seen them as he was faced about. Moreover, the service had begun. It had merely been the knowledge that each had of the other's presence in a warm glow like sunshine through the being. Not a soul had witnessed the glance, save the keen-eyed Miranda, and instantly she recognized a certain something which put her on the watch. She at once pricked up the ears of her consciousness, and if she had been living today she would have said to herself, There is something doing there. So Miranda, whether to her shame or her praise, sat through the whole long service, studied the faces of those two, and wove a pretty romance for herself out of the golden fabric of a glance. When the service was ended, Phoebe took good care of her eyes that they should not look toward the stranger. Nathaniel Graham was kept busy for the first few moments shaking hands with old friends and talking with the minister, who came down from the pulpit on purpose to greet him, and when he turned, as he did on the first opportunity, the pew behind him was empty, and the eyes that had met his, when he came in, were nowhere to be seen. He looked anxiously over the receding audience towards the open door, and caught the glimmer of the buff marino. Hasteily excusing himself to Janet on the plea that he wished to speak to someone, and would join her later, Nathaniel made his way down the aisle, disappointing some good old ladies who had been friends of his mother, and who were lying in wait for him at various pew doors. Miranda, who had been awaiting the pleasure of David and Marsha, saw it all, and her eager eyes watched to see if he would catch Phoebe. The way being open just then, she pressed out into the aisle, and, for once leaving Rose to follow with her mother, hurried to the door. Nathaniel did not overtake Phoebe until she had gone down the church steps, and was on the path in front of the churchyard that led to the shed where many of the conveyances were tied. He stepped up beside her, taking off his hat with a cheery, good morning, and Phoebe's pink cheeks and smiling eyes welcomed him happily. I wanted to be quite sure you were all right after your adventure the other day, he said, looking down into the lovely face with real pleasure. And then, before she could even answer, Hyrum Green stepped up airily as if he belonged, and looked at Nathaniel questioningly, as though he were intruding, saying, Well, here you are, Phoebe, I lost track of you at the church door, we better step along, the carry-all is waiting. Nathaniel looked up annoyed, then puzzled, recognized Hyrum with astonishment, and said, I beg your pardon, I did not know I was keeping you from your friends, to Phoebe, and lifting his hat with a courteous, good morning, Mr. Green, to Hyrum, stepped back among the little throng coming out of the church door. Now Miranda had been close behind, for she was determined to read every chapter of her romance that appeared in sight. She saw the whole maneuver on Hyrum Green's part, and the color that flamed angrily into Phoebe's cheek when she recognized Hyrum's interference. She also saw the dismay that showed in the girl's face as Nathaniel left her and Hyrum Green made as if to walk beside her. Phoebe looked wildly about. There seemed no escape from him as a companion without making a deliberate scene, yet her whole soul revolted at having Nathaniel Graham see her walk off with Hyrum. Quick as a flash, Miranda caught the meaning of Phoebe's look and flew to her assistance. She called quite clearly, Phoebe, Phoebe Dean, wait a minute, I want to tell you something. She had raised her voice on purpose, for she stood directly behind Nathaniel, and as she had hoped he turned to see Phoebe respond. She noted the sudden light in his eyes as he saw that the girl to whom he had just been talking responded to the name, but she did not know that it was a light of satisfaction because he had found out her name without asking anyone. He stood a moment and looked after them. He saw quite plainly that Phoebe dismissed the sulky Hyrum with a word and went off with Miranda. He saw that Hyrum did not even raise his hat on leaving Phoebe, but slouched off angrily without a word. Say, Phoebe Dean, said Miranda, familiarly. My Mrs. Spafford! This was Miranda's common way of speaking of Marsha in the possessive. She's been talking a long time about you and wishing you'd come to see her, and she's been laying out to ask you to tea, but things has prevented. So could you come Tuesday? You'd better come early and stay all the afternoon so you can play with Rose. She's the sweetest thing. Oh, I'd love to come! said Phoebe, her face aglow with pleasure. I've always admired Mrs. Spafford so much, and little Rose is beautiful, just like a Rose. Yes, tell her I will come. Just then came the strident voice of Amaline. Phoebe! Phoebe Dean! Was you intended to go home with us, or had you calculated to ride with Hyrum Green? If you're coming with us, we can't wait all day. With scarlet cheeks, angry heart, and trembling limbs, Phoebe bade Miranda a frightened goodbye and climbed into the carriage, not daring to look behind her to see who had heard the hateful words of her sister-in-law. Oh, had the stranger heard them? How dreadful if he had! How contemptible! How unforgivable in Amaline! How could she endure this persecution any longer? She did not even dare lift her eyes as they drove by the church, but sat with drooping lashes and burning cheeks, so missing the glance of the young man Nathaniel as he stood on the sidewalk with his cousin, waiting for another opportunity to lift his hat. Perhaps it was as well, for she would have been most unmercifully teased and cross-questioned if Amaline and Alma had seen him speak to her. Miranda watched the deans drive away and turned with a vindictive look of triumph to stare at Hyrum Green getting into his chaise alone. Then she began to reflect upon what she had done. About four o'clock that afternoon the dinner dishes being well out of the way and the Sunday quiet resting upon the house, Miranda presented herself before Marsha with the most guilty look upon her face that Marsha had ever seen her wear. Well, I've up and done it now, Mrs. Marsha, and no mistake. I expect I'll have to leave you, and the thought of it just breaks my heart. Why, Miranda, said Marsha, sitting up very suddenly from the couch where she had been reading Bible stories to Rose. You're not. You're surely not going to get married. Not by a jugful I ain't. Do you suppose I'd have any man that would take up with freckles and a turn up nose and a wife? I've gone and done something you'll think is a heap worse than getting married. But I didn't tell no lie. I was careful enough about that. I only told her you'd been talking long back about asking her, and you had, all right enough, only I oughtn't to ask her, and set the day an' all without you knowing. I noted at the time well enough, but I had to do it, because the circumstances was such. You see, that squint-eyed Hyrum Green was making it out that she was somewhat great to him, a parade down the walk there from the church, and a drive enough that nice city cousin of Janet Bristol's with his nice gentile manners and his tippans of his hat, and her a looking like she'd dropped from shame. So I called her to wait, and I runs up and talks to her. Then, course, she tells Hyrum Green he'd needn't to trouble to wait for her, and we goes off together in full sight of all. My, I was glad I beat that skin-flint of a Hyrum Green, but I was that excited I just couldn't think of another thing to do except to invite her. Who in the world are you talking about, Miranda? And what terrible thing have you done? Marsha's laughing eyes reassured Miranda, and she went on with her story. Why, that pretty little Phoebe Dean, she explained. I've invited her to tea Tuesday night. I thought that would suit you better than any other time. Monday night things ain't straight from wash day yet, and I didn't want to put it off too long, and I can make everything myself. But if you don't like it I'll go and tell her the whole truth on't. Only she did look so mortal pleased, I hate to spoil her fun. By degrees, Marsha drew the whole story from Miranda, even to a valuable description of the buff Merino and its owner's drooping expression. Well, I don't see why you thought I would be displeased, said Marsha. It is only right you should invite company once in a while. I am glad you invited her, and as you do most of the work, and know our plans pretty well, you knew it would likely be convenient. I am glad you invited her. But I didn't invite her, said Miranda. Least ways she doesn't know I did. She thinks you done it yourself, and she sent you a whole lot of thanks, and said she admired you terrible. And I didn't tell a thing but the truth, either. Miranda added, doggedly. You blessed old Miranda. You always have a way of wiggling out. But you do manage to make things go your way in spite of truth or anything else. And it was truth after all, for I did want her, and would have asked her myself if I had known. You see, you were just my messenger that time, acting in my place. And she gave Miranda one of the smiles that had so endeared her to the heart of the lonely girl. Then Miranda went back to her kitchen, comforted. Thus it came about that the buff Merino had the prospect of another tea-party, and the thought of it made Phoebe forget the annoyances of her home all through the dull Sabbath afternoon, when she could not get away from the family because Emmeline had ordered her to, stay downstairs and mind the baby, and not prance off to her room like a royal lady. And through the trials of Monday with its heavy work, which did not even cease with the washing of the tea-things, but continued in the form of a great basket of mending, which Emmeline announced at the supper table, were, all to be finished and put away that evening. Emmeline seemed to have made up her mind to be as disagreeable as possible. Phoebe sat beside the candle, and sewed with weary fingers, and longed to be away from them all, where she might think over quietly the pleasant things that had come to her life of late. Hyrum Green came in, too, and seemed to have come with a purpose, for he was hardly seated in his usual chair, with its back tilted against the wall, and its four legs tipped up, when he began with. Say, Albert, did you see that nincompoop of a nephew of Judge Bristol in the church? Does beat all how he takes on airs just because he's been off to college. Gosh, I can remember him going fishing in his bare feet, and here he was bowing round among the ladies, like he'd always been a fine gentleman, and never done a stroke of work in his life. His hands are as white and soft as a woman's. He strikes me very ladylike indeed, he does, smirking round and taking off his hat, as if he'd had nothing better to do. Fine feathers don't make fine birds, I say. I don't believe he could cut a swathe hay now to save his precious little life. He made me sick with his airs. Seems like Miss Janet better look after him if she expects to marry him, or he'll lose his head to every girl he meets. Something uncontrollable seemed to have stolen the blood out of Phoebe's heart for a moment, and all her strength was slipping away from her. Then a mighty anger rolled through her being, and surged to her very fingertips, yet she held those fingers steadily as her needle pierced back and forth through the stocking she was darning with unnecessary care. She knew perfectly well that these remarks were entirely for her benefit, and she resolved not to let Hyrum see that she understood or cared. Is he going to marry his cousin Janet? Asked Albert, interestingly. I never heard that. You didn't? Well, where have you been all these years? It's been come and talk since they was little tads. Their mothers loud that was the way it was to be, and they was sent away to separate schools on that account. I suppose they was afraid to take a dislike to each other if they saw each other constant. Upon my word I think Janet could look higher, and if I was her I wouldn't be held by no promise of no dead mothers. But they do say she worships the very ground he walks on, and she'll hold him to it all right enough, so there's no sort of use for any other girls to go anglin after him. I heard he was real bright, said Albert, genially. They say he's taken honors, a good many of them. He was president of the Philomethean Society in Union College, you know, and that's a great honor. Albert read a good deal and knew more about the world's affairs than Hyrum. Oh, bah, that's child's play, sneered Hyrum. Who couldn't be president of a literary society? It don't take much spunk to preside. I take it I ran the town meetin' last year about wells if I'd been a college president. My opinion is Nate Graham would've mounted to more if he'd stayed to home, and learned firemen, or studied law with his uncle and worked for his board. A feller that's all give over to lying round makin' nothin' of himself don't amount to a row of pins. But they say Dr. Knott thinks he's got brains. Persisted Albert. I'm sure I'd like to see him come out on top. I heard he was studying law in New York now. He was always a pleasant-spoken boy when he was here. What's pleasant speakin', growled Hyrum? It can't sell a load of wheat. His unsold wheat was bitterly in his thoughts. Well, I don't know about that, Hyrum. Albert felt pleasantly argumentative. I don't know, but if I was going to buy wheat, I'd a little sooner buy off the man that was pleasant-spoken than the man that wasn't. Hyrum sat glumly and pondered this saying for a few minutes, and Phoebe took advantage of the pause in conversation to lay down her work-basket, determinedly saying to Emmeline, I'll finish these stockings tomorrow, Emmeline, I feel tired and am going upstairs. It was the first time that Phoebe had ever dared to take a stand against Emmeline's orders. Emmeline was too astonished to speak for a minute, but just as Phoebe reached the door she said, Well, really, tired! I was down half an hour before you this morning, and I'm not tired to speak of, but I suppose if I was I'd have to keep right on. And who's to do your work tomorrow morning while you do this I'd like to know? But Phoebe had escaped out of hearing, and Emmeline relapsed into vexed silence. Hyrum, however, narrowed his cruel little eyes and thought he understood why she had gone. Phoebe had pondered much on how she would announce her intended absence that afternoon, almost deciding at one time to slip away without saying a word. But her conscientious little heart would not allow that. So, while the family were at breakfast, she said to Emmeline, I wish you'd tell me what work you want done besides the rest of the ironing. I'm invited out to tea this afternoon, and I want to get everything done this morning. Where to? exploded Alma, her curiosity getting the better of her superiority to her aunt for once. Indeed, said Emmeline, disdainfully, invited out to tea, what heirs we are taking on with our money. Pretty soon you won't have any time to give at home at all. If I was you, I'd go and board somewhere, you have so many social engagements. I'm sure I don't feel like asking a young lady like you to soil her hands washing my dishes. I'll wash them myself after this. Alma, you go get your apron on, and help Ma this morning. Aunt Phoebe hasn't got time. She'll have to take all the morning to curl her hair. Now, Emmeline, said Albert, gently reproachful. Don't tease the child. It's real nice for her to get invited out. She don't get much change, that's sure. Oh, no! Two tea parties inside of a week's nothing. I've heard of New York ladies going out as often as every other day, said Emmeline sarcastically. Albert never could quite understand his wife's sarcasm, so he turned to Phoebe and voiced the question that the rest were just bursting with curiosity to have answered. Who invited you, Phoebe? Mrs. Spafford, said Phoebe, trying not to show how near she was to crying over Emmeline's hateful speeches. Well, now that's real nice, said Albert in genuine earnest. There isn't a finer man in town than David Spafford. His paper is the best edited in the whole state of New York, and he's got a fine little wife. I don't believe she's many days older than you, Phoebe, either. She looked real young when he brought her here, and she hasn't grown a day older that I can see. Good reason why, sniffed Emmeline. She's nothing to do but lie around and be waited on. I'm sure Phoebe's welcome to such friends if they suit her. For my part, I'd rather go and see good self-respect in women that did a woman's work in the world, and not let their husbands make babies of them, and go riding around in a carriage forever looking like a June morning. I call that lazy I do. It's nothing more nor less. And she's keeping that poor good-for-nothing Miranda Griscombe slave and from morning to night for her. If Phoebe was my sister, I shouldn't choose such friends for her. Besides, she hasn't got very good manners not to invite your wife, too, Albert Dean. But I suppose you never thought of that. I shouldn't think Phoebe would care to accept an invitation that was an insult to her relations, even if they wasn't just blood relations. There all she's got, that's sure. Say, look here, Emeline. Your speech don't hang together. You just said you didn't care to make friends of Mrs. Bafford, and now you're fussing because she didn't invite you, too. It looks like a case of sour grapes, eh, Phoebe? Hank caught the joke and laughed uproariously, though Phoebe looked grave, knowing how bitter it would be to Emeline to be laughed at. Two red spots flamed out on the wife's cheeks, and her eyes snapped. Seems to me things has gone pretty far, Albert Dean. She's said in a high excited voice. When you, you, can insult your wife in public and then laugh. I shan't forget this of you, Albert Dean. And with her head well up, she shoved her chair back from the table and left the room, closing the door with loud decision behind her. Albert's merry laugh came to an abrupt end. He looked after his wife with startled surprise. Never in all their one-sidedly harmonious wedded life had Emeline taken offence like that in the presence of others. He looked helplessly inquiringly from one to another. Well now, he began aimlessly. You don't suppose she thought I meant that, do you? Course! said Alma knowingly. You've made her dreadful madpah. My, but you're going to get it. Looks mighty like it, snickered hank. Albert continued to look at Phoebe for a reply. I'm afraid she thought you were in earnest, Albert. You'd better go and explain, said Phoebe commiseratingly. You better not go for a while, Pa, called out Johnny sympathetically. Wait till she gets over it a little. Go hide in the barn. That's the way I do. But Albert was going heavily up the stairs after his offended wife and did not hear his young hopeful's voice. Albert was tender-hearted and could not bear to hurt anyone's feelings. Besides, it never was pleasant to have Emeline angry. He wished, if possible, to explain away the offence before it struck in too deep for healing and had to be lived down. This state of things was rather more helpful to Phoebe than otherwise. Hank took himself off, finding a certain embarrassment in Phoebe's dignified silence. The children slipped away, glad to get rid of any little duties usually required by their mother. Phoebe went at her work unhindered, and it vanished before her while her thoughts took happy flight away from the unhappy home to the afternoon that was before her. Upstairs the conference was long and uncertain. Phoebe could hear the low rumbling of Albert's conciliatory tones and the angry rasp of Emeline's tearful charges. Albert came downstairs, looking sad and tired about an hour before dinnertime, and hurried out to the barn to his neglected duties. He paused in the kitchen to say to Phoebe apologetically, You mustn't mind what Emeline says, child. Her bark's a great deal worse than her bite, always. And after all, she's had it pretty hard with all the children and staying in so much. I'm sure she appreciates what you do. I'm sure she does, but it isn't her way to say much about it. You just go out to tea and have a good time, and don't think any more about this. It'll blow over, you know, most things do. Phoebe tried to smile and felt a throb of gratitude toward the brother who was not really her brother at all. You're a good girl, Phoebe. He went on patting her cheek. You're like your mother. She was little and pretty and liked things nice and had a quiet voice. I sometimes think maybe it isn't as pleasant here for you as it might be. You're made of different kind of stuff that thinks and feels in a different way. Your mother was so. I've often wondered whether father understood her. Men don't understand women very well, I guess. Now, I don't really always understand Emmeline, and I guess it's pretty hard for her. Father was some rough and blunt, and maybe that was hard for your mother at times. I remember she used to look sad, though I never saw her much come to think about it. I was off working for myself when they were married, you know. Say, Phoebe, you didn't for a minute think I meant what I said about sour grapes and Emmeline, did you? I told her you didn't, but I promised her I'd make sure about it. I knew you didn't. Well, I must go out and see if Hank's done everything. He went out drawing a long breath as if he had accomplished an unpleasant task, and left Phoebe wondering about her own mother, and trying to get a little glimpse into her possible sorrows and joys through the words that Albert had spoken. Somehow that sentence in her birthday letter came back to her. Unless you can marry a man to whom you can look up and honor next to God, it is better not to marry at all. Believe your mother, child. I say it lovingly, for I have seen much sorrow and would protect you. Had her father been hard to live with? Phoebe put the thought from her, and was half glad she could not answer it. Her own life was enough of a problem without going back and sorrowing for her mothers. But it made her heart throb with a sense of a fuller understanding of her mother's life and warnings. Emeline did not come downstairs until dinner time, and her manner was freezing. Phoebe was glad that the work was all done carefully, even to the scrubbing of the back steps, and that the dinner was more than usually inviting. But Emeline seemed not to see anything, and her manner remained as severe as when she first entered the kitchen. She poured the coffee and drank a cup of it herself, and ate a bit of bread, but would not touch anything else on the table. She waited on the children with ostentatious care, but would not respond to the solicitations of her anxious husband, who urged this and that dainty upon her. Frank even suggested that the hot biscuits were nicer than usual, but that remark had to be lived down by Hank, for Emeline usually made the biscuits, and Phoebe had made these. She did not condescend to even look at him in response. Phoebe was glad when the last bit of pumpkin pie and cheese had disappeared, and she could rise from her chair and go about the after-dinner work. Glad too that Emeline went away again and left her to herself, for so she could more quickly finish up. She was just hanging up her wiping towels when Emeline came downstairs with the look of a martyr on her face and the quilting frames in her hand. Over her shoulder was thrown her latest achievement in patchwork, a brilliant combination of reds and yellows and white, known as the rising sun pattern. It was a large quilt and would be quite a job to put on the frames. It was a herculean task for one person without an assistant. Phoebe stopped with an exclamation of dismay. You're not going to put that on the frames today, Emeline? I thought you were saving that for next month. Emeline's grim mouth remained shut for several seconds. At last she snapped out. I don't know that it makes any difference what you thought. This is a free country, and I've surely a right to do what I please in my own house. But Emeline, I can't help you this afternoon. I don't know that I've asked you. But you can't do it alone. Indeed, what makes you think I can't? Go right along to your tea-party and take your ease. I was brought up to work, thank fortune, and a few burdens more or less can't make much difference. I'm not a lady of leisure and means like you. Phoebe stood a minute, watching Emeline's stubby determined fingers, as they fitted a wooden peg into its socket like a period to the conversation. It seemed dreadful to go away and leave Emeline to put up that quilt alone. But what was she to do? There seemed to be no law in the universe that could compel her to give up her first invitation out to tea, in order that Emeline might finish that quilt this particular week. It was plain that she had brought it down on purpose to hold her at home. Indignation boiled within her. If she had slipped stealthily away, this would not have happened. But she had done her duty in telling Emeline, and she felt perfectly justified in going. It wasn't as if she had invited herself. It would not be polite, now she had accepted the invitation, not to go. So, with sudden determination, Phoebe left the kitchen and went up to dress. With swift fingers she fastened the buff Merino, put her hair in order, and tied on her locket. But nowhere was the little brown velvet bow to be found that belonged to her hair. She had not missed it before, for on Sunday she had worn her bonnet and had dressed in a hurry. In perplexity she looked over her neat boxes of scant finery, but could not find it. She had to hurry away without it. She went out the other door, for she could not bear the sight of Emeline putting up that sunrise bed quilt all alone. The thought of it seemed to cloud the sun and spoil the anticipation of her precious afternoon. Once out in the crisp autumn air she drew a long breath of relief. It was so good to get away from the gloomy atmosphere that had been cramping her life for so many years. In a lonely place in the road between farmhouses she uttered a soft little scream under her breath. She felt as if she must do something to let out the agony of wrath and longing and hurt and indignity that were trying to burst her soul. Then she walked on to the town with demure dignity, and the people in the passing carioles and farm wagons never suspected that she was odd but a happy maiden with thoughts busy with the joys of life. The autumn days were lingering in sunny deep blue haze, though the reds were changing into brown and in the fields were gathering huddled groups of corn shocks like old crones, waving skeleton arms in the breeze and whispering weird gossip. A rusty-throated cricket in the thicket by the way piped out his monotonous dirge to the summer now deceased. A flight of birds sprang into sight across the sky, calling and chattering to one another of a warmer climate. An old red cow stood in her well-grazed meadow, snuffed the short grass, and, looking at Phoebe as she passed, balled a gentle protest at the decline of fresh vegetables. Everything spoke of autumn and the winter that was to come, but Phoebe, every step she took from home, grew lighter and lighter-hearted, and could only think of the happy time she was to have. It was not that she was thinking of the stranger, for there was no possibility of meeting him. The Bristol Place, a fine old colonial house behind a tall white fence and high-private hedge, with a glimpse of a wonderful garden set off with dark borders of box through the imposing gateway, was over near the Presbyterian Church. It was not near the Spafford's house. She felt the freer and happier because there was no question of him to trouble her careful conscience. Miranda had gone to the window that looked up the road towards the Deans at least twenty times since the dinner-dishes were washed. She was more nervous over the success of this her first tea-party than over anything she had ever done. She was beginning to be afraid that her guest would not arrive. Everything was in train for supper. There was to be stewed chicken with Riz biscuits and honey, raspberry preserves, spiced peaches, fruitcake and caraway seed cookies with delectable sugary tops. The tea was to be served in the very thinnest of the Blue China Cups. It was with difficulty that Marcia had suppressed a multitude of varieties of pickles and jellies and preserves and cakes, for Miranda could not understand why it wasn't skimping to have so few dishes upon the table. Grandma was never half satisfied if you could see the tablecloth much between dishes. She was won't to say dubiously. But Marcia tried patiently to explain that it was not refined to load the table with so many varieties, and Miranda, half convinced, gave it up, thinking Marcia sweet but inexperienced. Miranda, fidgeting from window to door and back again to the kitchen, came at last to the library where sat Marcia with her work, watching a frolic between Rose and her kitten outside the window. Say, Mrs. Marcia, she began ingratiatingly. You'll find out what troubles that poor little thing and see if you can't help her, won't you? She's your size and kind, more than she is mine, and you ought to be able to give her some help. You needn't think you've got to tell out to me everything you find out, I shan't ask. I can find out enough for my own use when I'm needed, but I think she needs you this time. When there's any use for me, I always seem to kind of feel it in the air. Bless your heart, Miranda, I don't believe you care much for anyone unless they need helping. Exclamed Marcia, laughing. What makes you so sure Phoebe Dean needs helping? Oh, I know, said Miranda mysteriously, and so will you when you look at her real hard. There she comes now. Don't you go and tell I said nothing about her. You just make her tell you. She's that sweet, and so are you, that you too can't help pouring out your perfume to each other like two flowers. But trouble isn't perfume, Miranda. Flowers smells all the sweeter when you crush them a little, don't they? There, you set right still where you be. I'll go to the door. Don't you stir. I want her to see you look in that way with the sun across the top of your pretty hair. She'll like it. I know she will. Marcia sat quite still as she was bitten, with the Madonna smile upon her lips that David loved so well, smiling over Miranda's strange fancies, yet never thinking of herself as a picture against the window panes. In a moment more Phoebe Dean stood in the doorway, with Miranda beside her, looking from one to another of the two sweet girlfaces in deep admiration, and noting with delight that Phoebe fully appreciated the loveliness of her, Mrs. Marcia.