"I expect Miriam must be enjoying this lovely evening," she said. "And
she will see the sun set from the beach, for Barport faces westward, and
I never saw a girl enjoy sunsets as she does. At this moment I expect her
face is as bright as the sky."

"And wouldn't you like to be standing by her?" asked Ralph.

Cicely shook her head. "No," she said. "To speak truly, I should rather
be here. We used to go a good deal to the seashore, but this is the first
time that I ever really lived in the country, and it is so charming I
would not lose a day of it, and there cannot be very many more days of
it, anyway."

"Why not?" asked Ralph.

"I am now copying chapter twenty-seventh of the doctor's book, and there
are only thirty-one in all. And as to his other work, that will not
occupy me very long."

Ralph was about to ask a question, but, instead, he involuntarily grasped
one of the little gloved hands that held the reins.

"Pull that," he said quickly. "You must always turn to the right when you
meet a vehicle."

Cicely obeyed, but when they had passed a wagon, drawn by a team of oxen,
she said, "But there was more room on the other side."

"That may be," replied Ralph, with a laugh, "but when you are driving,
you must not rely too much on your reason, but must follow rules and
tradition."

"If I knew as much about driving as I like it," said she, "I should be a
famous whip. Before we go, I am going to ask Miriam to take me out with
her, two or three times, and give me lessons in driving. She told me that
you had taught her a great deal."

"So you would be willing to take your tuition secondhand," said Ralph. "I
am a much better teacher than Miriam is."

"Would you like to make up a class?" she asked. "But I do not know how
the teacher and the two pupils could ride in this gig. Oh, I see. Miriam
and I could sit here, and you could walk by our side and instruct us, and
when the one who happened to be driving should make a mistake, she would
give up her seat and the reins, and go to the foot of her class."

"Class indeed!" exclaimed Ralph; "I'll have none of it. I will take you
out tomorrow and give you a lesson."

So they went gayly on till they came to a grassy hill which shut out the
western view.

"Do you think I could go through that gate," asked Cicely, "and drive
Mrs. Browning up that hill? There is going to be a grand sunset, and we
should get a fine view of it up there."

"No," said Ralph, "let us get out and walk up, and as Mrs. Browning can
see the barn, we will not worry her soul by tying her to the fence. I
shall let her go home by herself, and you will see how beautifully she
will do it."

So they got out, and Ralph having fastened the reins to the dashboard,
clicked to the old mare, who walked away by herself. Cicely was greatly
interested, and the two stood and watched the sober-minded animal as she
made her way home as quietly and properly as if she had been driven. When
she entered the gate of the barnyard, and stopped at the stable door,
Ralph remarked that she would stand there until Mike came out, and then
the two went into the field and walked up the hill.

"I once had a scolding from Miriam for doing that sort of thing," said
Ralph; "but you do not seem to object."

"I do not know enough yet," cried Cicely, who had begun to run up the
hill; "wait until I have had my lessons."

They stood together at the top of the little eminence.

"I wonder," said Cicely, "if Miriam ever comes upon this hill at sunset.
Perhaps she has never thought of it."

Ralph did not know; but the mention of Miriam's name caused him to think
how little he had missed his sister, who had seemed to live in his life
as he had lived in hers. It was strange, and he could not believe that he
would so easily adapt himself to the changed circumstances of his home
life. There was another thing of which he did not think, and that was
that he had not missed Dora Bannister. It is true that he had never seen
much of that young lady; but he had thought so much about her, and made
so many plans in regard to her, and had so often hoped that he might see
her drive up to the Cobhurst door, and had had such charming
recollections of the hours she had spent in his home, and of the travels
they had taken together by photograph, her blue eyes lifted to his as if
in truth she leaned upon his arm as they walked through palace and park,
that it was wonderful that he did not notice that for days his thoughts
had not dwelt upon her.

When the gorgeous color began to fade out of the sky, Cicely said her
mother would be wondering what had become of her, and together they went
down the hill, and along the roadside, where they stopped to pick some
tall sprays of goldenrod, and through the orchard, and around by the
barnyard, where Mike was milking, and where Ralph stopped while Cicely
went on to the house.

Phoebe was standing down by the entrance gate. She was waiting for an
oxcart, whose driver had promised to take her with him on his return to
Thorbury. She had arranged with a neighbor to prepare the minister's
supper, but she must be on hand to give him his breakfast. As there was
nothing to interest her at Cobhurst, and nothing to report, she was glad
to go, and considered this oxcart a godsend, for her plan of getting Mike
to drive her over in the spring cart had not been met with favor.

Waiting at the gateway, she had seen Ralph and Cicely walk up the hill,
and watched them standing together, ever and ever so long, looking at the
sky, and she had kept her eyes on them as they came down the hill,
stopped to pick flowers which he gave to her, and until they had
disappeared among the trees of the orchard.

"Upon my word an' honor!" ejaculated Mrs. Robinson, "if that old French
slop-cook hasn't lied to me, wus than Satan could do hisself! If them
two ain't lovers, there never was none, an' that old heathen sinner
thought she could clap a coffee bag over my head so that I couldn't see
nothin' nor tell nothin'. She might as well a' slapped me in the face,
the sarpent!"

And unable, by reason of her indignation, to stand still any longer, she
walked up the road to meet the returning oxcart, whose wheels could be
heard rumbling in the distance.

La Fleur had seen the couple standing together on the little hill, but
she had thought it a pity to disturb their tГЄte-Г -tГЄte.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

CICELY READS BY MOONLIGHT


Just before Cicely reached the back piazza, La Fleur came out of the
kitchen door with the telegram in her hand.

"Do you know," she said, "if Mr. Haverley has come home, and where I can
find him? Here is a message for him, and I have been looking for him,
high and low."

"A telegram!" exclaimed Cicely. "He is at the barn. I will take it to
him. I can get there sooner than you can, La Fleur," and without further
word, she took the yellow missive and ran with it toward the barn. She
met Ralph half way, and stood by him while he read the message.

"I hope," she cried as she looked into his pale face, "that nothing has
happened to Miriam."

"Read that," he said, his voice trembling. "Do you suppose--" but he
could not utter the words that were in his mind.

Cicely seized the telegram and eagerly read it. She was on the point of
screaming, but checked herself.

"How terrible!" she exclaimed. "But what can it mean? It is from Miss
Panney. Oh! I think it is wicked to send a message like that, which does
not tell you what has happened."

"It must be Miriam," cried Ralph. "I must go instantly," and at the top
of his voice he shouted for Mike. The man soon appeared, running.

"Mike!" exclaimed Ralph, "there has been an accident, something has
happened to Miss Miriam. I must go instantly to Barport. I must take the
next train from Thorbury. Put the horse to the gig as quickly as you can.
You must go with me."

With a face expressing the deepest concern, Mike stood looking at the
young man.

"Don't stop for a minute," cried Ralph, in great excitement. "Drop
everything. Take the horse, no matter what he has been doing; he can go
faster than the mare. I shall be ready in five minutes!"

"Mr. Hav'ley," said Mike, "there ain't no down train stops at Thorbury
after the seven-ten, and it's past seven now. That train'll be gone
before I can git hitched up."

"No train tonight!" Ralph almost yelled, "that cannot be. I do not
believe it."

"Now look here, Mr. Hav'ley," said Mike, "I wouldn't tell you nothin'
that wasn't so, 'specially at a time like this. But I've been driving to
Thorbury trains an' from 'em, for years and years. There's a late train
'bout ten o'clock, but it's a through express and don't stop."

"I must take that train," cried Ralph, "what is the nearest station where
it does stop?"

"There ain't none nearer than the Junction, and that's sixteen miles up,
an' a dreadful road. I once druv there in the daytime, an' it tuk me four
hours, an' if you went to-night you couldn't get there afore daylight."

"Why don't you go to Thorbury and telegraph?" asked Cicely, who was now
almost as pale as Ralph. "Then you could find out exactly what has
happened."

"Oh, I must go, I must go," said Ralph; "but I shall telegraph. I shall
go to Thorbury instantly, and get on as soon as I can."

Mike stood looking on the ground.

"Mr. Hav'ley," he said, as the young man was about to hurry to the house,
"tain't no use, the telegraph office is shet up, right after that down
train passes."

"It is barbarous!" exclaimed Ralph. "I will go anyway. I will find the
operator."

"Mr. Hav'ley," said Mike, "don't you go an' do that. You is tremblin'
like a asp. You'll be struck down sick if you go on so. There's a train a
quarter of six in the mornin', an' I'll git you over to that. If you goes
to Thorbury, you won't be fit to travel in the mornin', an' you won't be
no good when you gits there."

Tears were now on Cicely's cheeks, in spite of her efforts to
restrain herself.

"He is right, Mr. Ralph," she said. "I think it will be dreadful for you
to be in Thorbury all night, and most likely for no good. It will be a
great deal better to leave here early in the morning and go straight to
Barport. But let us go into the house and talk to mother. After all, it
may not be Miriam. You cannot tell what it is. It is a cruel message."

Mrs. Drane was greatly shocked, but she agreed with her daughter that it
would not be wise for Ralph to go to Thorbury until he could start for
Barport. La Fleur was somewhat frightened when she found that her wilful
delay of the telegram might occasion Mr. Haverley an harassing and
anxious night in Thorbury, and was urgent in her endeavors to quiet him
and persuade him to remain at home until morning. But it was not until
Cicely had put in her last plea that the young man consented to give up
his intention of going in search of the telegraph operator.

"Mr. Ralph," said she, "don't you think it would be awful if you were to
send a message and get a bad answer to it, and have to stay there by
yourself until the morning? I cannot bear to think of it; and telegraphic
messages are always so hard and cruel. If I were you, I would rather go
straight on and find out everything for myself."

Ralph looked down at her and at the tears upon her cheeks.

"I will do that," he said, and taking her hand, he pressed it thankfully.

Every preparation and arrangement was made for an early start, and Ralph
wandered in and out of the house, impatient as a wild beast to break
away and be gone. Cicely, whose soul was full of his sorrow, went out to
him on the piazza, where he stood, looking at the late moon rising above
the treetops.

"What a different man I should be," he said, "if I could think that
Miriam was standing on the seashore and looking at that moon."

Cicely longed to comfort him, but she could not say anything which would
seem to have reason in it. She had tried to think that it might be
possible that the despatch might not concern Miriam, but she could not
do it. If it had been necessary to send a despatch and Miriam had been
alive and well, it would have been from her that the despatch would have
come. Cicely's soul was sick with sorrow and with dread, not only for
the brother, but for herself, for she and Miriam were now fast friends.
But she controlled herself, and looking up with a smile, said, "What
time is it?"

Ralph took out his watch and held the face of it toward the moon, which
was but little past the full.

"It is a quarter to nine," he said.

"Well, then," said she, "I will ask Miriam, when I see her, if she was
looking at the moon at this time."

"Do you believe," exclaimed Ralph, turning suddenly so that they stood
face to face, "do you truly believe that we shall ever see her again?"

The question was so abrupt that Cicely was taken unawares. She raised her
face toward the eager eyes bent upon her, but the courageous words she
wished to utter would not come, and she drooped her head. With a swift
movement, Ralph put his two hands upon her cheeks and gently raised her
face. He need not have looked at her, for the warm tears ran down upon
his hands.

"You do not," he said; and as he gazed down upon her, her face became
dim. For the first time since his boyhood, tears filled his eyes.

At a quick sound of hoofs and wheels, both started; and the next
moment the telegraph boy drove up close to the railing and held up a
yellow envelope.

"One dollar for delivery," said he; "that's night rates. This come jest
as the office was shetting up, and Mr. Martin said I'd got to deliver it
to-night; but I couldn't come till the moon was up."

Cicely, who was nearer, seized the telegram before Ralph could get it.

"Drive round to the back of the house," she said to the boy, "and I will
bring you the money."

She held the telegram, though Ralph had seized it.

"Don't be too quick," she said, "don't be too quick. There, you will tear
it in half. Let me open it for you."

She deftly drew the envelope from his hand, and spread the telegram on
the broad rail of the piazza, on which the moon shone full. Instantly
their heads were close together.

"I cannot read it," groaned Ralph; "my eyes are--"

"I can," interrupted Cicely, and she read aloud the message, which
ran thus,--

"Fear news of accident may trouble you. We are all well. Have written.
Miriam Haverley."

Ralph started back and stood upright, as if some one had shouted to him
from the sky. He said not one word, but Cicely gave a cry of joy. Ralph
turned toward her, and as he saw her face, irradiated by the moonlight
and her sudden happiness, he looked down upon her for one moment, and
then his arms were outstretched toward her; but, quick as was his motion,
her thought was quicker, and before he could touch her, she had darted
back with the telegram in her hand.

"I will show this to mother," she cried, and was in the house in
an instant.

La Fleur was in the hall, where for some time she had been quietly
standing, looking out upon the moonlight. From her position, which was
not a conspicuous one, at the door of the enclosed stairway, she had been
able to keep her eyes upon Ralph and Cicely; and held herself ready,
should she hear Mrs. Drane coming down the stairs, to go up and engage
her in a consultation in regard to domestic arrangements. She had known
of the arrival of the telegraph boy, had seen what followed, and now
listened with rapt delight to Cicely's almost breathless announcement of
the joyful news.

After the girl went upstairs, La Fleur walked away; there was no need for
her to stand guard any longer.

"It isn't only the telegram," she said to herself, "that makes her face
shine and her voice quiver like that." Then she went out to congratulate
Mr. Haverley on the news from his sister. But the young man was not
there; his soul was too full for the restraints of a house or a roof, and
he had gone out, bareheaded, into the moonlight to be alone with his
happiness and to try to understand it.

When Mrs. Drane returned to her room, having gone down at her daughter's
request to pay the telegraph messenger, she found her daughter lying on a
couch, her face wet with tears. But in ten minutes Cicely was sitting up
and chattering gayly. The good lady was rejoiced to know that there was
no foundation for the evils they had feared, but she could not understand
why her daughter, usually a cool-headed little thing and used to
self-control, should be so affected by the news. And in the morning she
was positively frightened when Cicely informed her that she had not slept
a wink all night.

Mrs. Drane had not seen Ralph's face when he stretched out his arms
toward her daughter.




CHAPTER XXXIX

UNDISTURBED LETTUCE


When Ralph Haverley came in from his long moonlight ramble, he was so
happy that he went to bed and slept as sound as rock. But before he
closed his eyes he said to himself,--

"I will do that to-morrow; the very first thing to-morrow."

But people do not always do what they intend to do the very first thing
in the morning, and this was the case with Ralph. La Fleur, who knew that
a letter was expected, sent Mike early to the post-office, and soon after
breakfast Ralph had a letter from Miriam. It was a long one; it gave a
full account of the drowning accident and of some of her own experiences,
but it said not one word of the message sent by Miss Panney, to whom
Miriam alluded very slightly. It gave, however, the important information
that Mrs. Bannister had been so affected by the dreadful scene on the
beach that she declared she could not go into the ocean again, nor even
bear the sight of it, and that, therefore, they were all coming home on
the morrow.

"She will be here to-night," said Ralph, who knew the trains from
Barport.

As soon as he had read the letter Ralph went to look for Cicely. She had
come down late to breakfast, and he had been surprised at her soberness
of manner. On the other hand, Mrs. Drane had been surprised at Ralph's
soberness of manner, and she found herself in the unusual position of the
liveliest person at the breakfast table.

"People who have heard such good news ought to be very happy," she
thought, but she made no remark on the subject.

It was Cicely's custom to spend the brief time she allowed herself
between breakfast and work, upon the lawn, or somewhere out of doors,
but to-day Ralph searched in vain for her. He met La Fleur, however,
and that conscientious cook, in her most respectful manner, asked him,
if he happened to meet Miss Cicely, would he be so good as to give her
a message?

"But I don't know where she is," said Ralph. "I have a letter to
show her."

La Fleur wished very much to know what was in the letter, which, she
supposed, explained the mystery of the telegrams, but at a moment like
this she would not ask.

"She is in the garden, sir," she said. "I asked her to gather me some
lettuce for luncheon. She does it so much more nicely than I could do it,
or Mike. She selects the crispest and most tender leaves of that crimped
and curled lettuce you all like so much, and I thought I would ask you,
sir, if you met her, to be so very kind as to tell her that I would like
a few sprigs of parsley, just a very few. I would go myself, sir, but
there is something cooking which I cannot leave, and I beg your pardon
for troubling you and will thank you, sir, very much if you--"

It was not worth while for her to finish her sentence, for Ralph had
gone.

He found Cicely just as she stooped over the lettuce bed. She rose with a
face like a peach blossom.

"I have a letter from Miriam," he said, "I will give it to you presently,
and you may read the whole of it, but I must first tell you that she,
with Mrs. Bannister and Dora, are coming home to-day. They will reach
Thorbury late this afternoon. Isn't that glorious?"

All the delicate hues of the peach blossom went out of Cicely's face.
That everlasting person had come up again, and now he called her Dora,
and it was glorious to have her back! She did not have to say anything,
for Ralph went rapidly on.

"But before they leave Barport," he said, "I want to send Miriam a
telegram. If Mike takes it immediately to Thorbury, she will get it
before her train leaves."

"A telegram!" exclaimed Cicely, but she did not look up at him.

"Yes," said he; "I want to telegraph to Miriam that you and I are
engaged to be married. I want her to know it before she gets here. Shall
I send it?"

She raised to him a face more brightly hued than any peach
blossom--rich with the color of the ripe fruit. Ten minutes after this,
two wood doves, sitting in a tree to the east of the lettuce bed, and
looking westward, turned around on their twig and looked toward the
east. They were sunny-minded little creatures, and did not like to be
cast into the shade.

As they went out of the garden gate, Cicely said, "You have always been a
very independent person and accustomed to doing very much as you please,
haven't you?"

"It has been something like that," answered Ralph; "but why?"

"Only this," she said; "would you begin already to chafe and rebel if I
were to ask you not to send that telegram? It would be so much nicer to
tell her after she gets back."

"Chafe!" exclaimed Ralph, "I should think not. I will do exactly as
you wish."

"You are awfully good," said Cicely, "but you must agree with me more
prudently now that we are out here, and I will not tell mother until
Miriam knows."

A gray old chanticleer, who was leading his hens across the yard,
stopped at this moment and looked at Ralph, but it is not certain that
he sniffed.

Ralph knew very well when people, coming from Barport, should arrive in
Thorbury, but his mind was so occupied that when he went to the barn, he
forgot so many things he should have done at the house, and he ran
backward and forward so often, and waited so long for an opportunity to
say something he had just thought of, to somebody who did not happen to
be ready to listen at the precise moment he wished to speak, that he had
just stepped into the gig to go to the station for his sister, when
Miriam arrived alone in the Bannister carriage. Not finding anybody at
the station to meet her, they had sent her on.

Mrs. Drane was not the liveliest person at the dinner table, and she
wondered much how Ralph and Cicely, who had been so extremely sober at
breakfast time, should now be so hilarious. The arrival of Miriam seemed
hardly reason enough for such intemperate gayety.

As for Miriam, she overflowed with delight. The ocean was grand, but
Cobhurst was Cobhurst. "There was nothing better about my trip than the
opportunity it gave me of coming back to my home. I never did that
before, you know, my children."

This she said loftily from her seat at the head of the table. Dinner was
late and lasted long, and Ralph had gone into the room on the lower
floor, in which he kept his cigars, and which he called his office, when
Miriam followed him. There was no unencumbered chair, and she seated
herself on the edge of the table.

"Ralph," said she, "I want to say something to you, now, while it is
fresh in my mind. I think we can sometimes understand our affairs better
when we go away from them and are not mixed up in them. I have been
thinking a great deal since I have been at Barport about our affairs
here, not only as they are but as they may be, and most likely will be,
and I have come to the conclusion that some of these days, Ralph, you
will want to be married."

"Do you mean me?" cried Ralph. "You amaze me!"

"Oh, you are only a man, and you need not be amazed," said his sister.
"This is the way I have been thinking of it: if you ever do want to get
married, I hope you will not marry Dora Bannister. I used sometimes to
think that that might be a good thing to do, though I changed my mind
very often about it, but I do not think so, now, at all. Dora is an
awfully nice girl in ever so many ways, but since I have been at Barport
with her, I am positive that I do not want you to marry her."

Ralph heaved a long sigh and put his hands in his pockets.

"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "this is very discouraging; if I do not
marry Dora, who is there that I can marry?"

"You goose," said his sister, "there is a girl here, under your very
nose, ever so much nicer and more suitable for you than Dora. If you
marry anybody, marry Cicely Drane. I have been thinking ever and ever so
much about her and about you, and I made up my mind to speak to you of
this as soon as I got home, so that you might have a chance to think
about it before you should see Dora. Don't you remember what you used to
tell me about the time when you were obliged to travel so much, and how,
when you had a seat to yourself in a car, and a crowd of people were
coming in, you used to make room for the first nice person you saw,
because you knew you would have to have somebody sitting alongside of
you, and you liked to choose for yourself? Now that is the way I feel
about your getting married; if you marry Cicely Drane, I shall feel safe
for the rest of my life."

"Miriam!" exclaimed Ralph, "you astonish me by the force of your
statements. Wait here one moment," and he ran into the hall through which
he had seen Cicely passing, and presently reappeared with her.

"Miss Drane," said he, "do you know that my sister thinks that I ought to
marry you?"

In an instant Miriam had slipped from the table to the floor.

"Good gracious, Ralph!" she cried. "What do you mean?"

"I am merely stating your advice," he answered; "and now, Miss Drane, how
does it strike you?"

"Well," said Cicely, demurely, "if your sister really thinks we should
marry, I suppose--I suppose we ought to do it."

Miriam's eyes flashed from one to the other, then there were two girlish
cries and a manly laugh, and in a moment Miriam and Cicely were in each
other's arms, while Ralph's arms were around them both.

"Now," said Cicely, when this group had separated itself into its several
parts, "I must run up and tell mother." And very soon Mrs. Drane
understood why there had been sobriety at breakfast and hilarity at
dinner. She was surprised, but felt she ought not to be; she was a little
depressed, but knew she would get over that.

La Fleur did not hear the news that night, but it was not necessary; she
had seen Ralph and Cicely coming through the garden gate without a leaf
of lettuce or a single sprig of parsley.




CHAPTER XL

ANGRY WAVES


The ocean rolled angrily on the beach, and Miss Panney walked angrily
on the beach, a little higher up, however, than the line to which the
ocean rolled.

The old lady was angrier than the ocean, and it was much more than mere
wind that made her storm waves roll. Her indignation was directed first
against Mrs. Bannister, that silly woman, who, by cutting short her stay
at the seashore, had ruined Miss Panney's plans, and also against Ralph,
who had not come to Barport as soon as he had received the telegram. If
he had arrived, the party might have stayed a little longer for his sake.
Why he had not come she knew no more than she knew what she was going to
say to him in explanation of her message, and she cared as little for the
one as for the other.

Her own visit to Barport had been utterly useless. She had spent money
and time, she had tired herself, had been frightened and
disgusted,--all for nothing. She did not remember any of her plans that
had failed so utterly.

Meeting the bathing-master, she rolled in upon him some ireful waves,
because he did not keep a boat outside the breakers to pick up people who
might be exhausted and in danger of drowning. In vain the man protested
that ten thousand people had said that to him, before, and that the thing
could not be done, because so many swimmers would make for the boat and
hang on to its sides, just to rest themselves until they were ready to go
back. It would simply be a temptation to people to swim beyond the
breakers. She went on, in a voice that the noise of the surf could not
drown, to tell him that she hoped ten thousand more people would say the
same thing to him, and to declare that he ought to have several boats
outside during bathing hours, so that people could cling to some of them,
and so, perhaps, save themselves from exhaustion on their return, and so
that one, at least, could be kept free to succor the distressed. At last
the poor man vowed that he acted under orders, and that, if she wanted to
pitch into anybody, she ought to pitch into the proprietors of the hotel
who employed him, and who told him what he must do.

Miss Panney accepted this advice; and if the sea had broken into the
private office of that hotel, the owners and managers could not have had
a worse time than they had during the old lady's visit. It may be stated
that for the remainder of the season two or three boats might always be
seen outside the breakers during bathing hours at the Barport beach.

For the sake of appearances, Miss Panney did not leave Barport
immediately; for she did not wish her friends to think that she was a
woman who would run after the Bannisters wherever they might please to
go. But in a reasonable time she found herself in the Witton household,
and the maid who had charge of her room had some lively minutes after the
arrival of the old lady therein.

The next day she went to Thorbury to see what had happened, and chanced
to spy Phoebe resting herself on a bench at the edge of the public green.
Instantly the colored woman sprang to her feet, and began to explain to
Miss Panney why she had not made her report before the latter set out on
her journey.

"You see, ma'am, I hadn't no shoes as was fit for that long walk out in
the country, an' I had to take my best ones to the shoemaker; and though
I did my best to make him hurry, it took him a whole day, an' so I had to
put off going to Cobhurst, an' I've never got over my walk out thar yit.
My j'ints has creaked ever sense."

"If you used them more, they would creak less," snapped Miss Panney. "How
are things going on at Cobhurst? What did you see there?"

"I seed a lot, an' I heard a lot," the colored woman answered. "Mike's
purty nigh starved, an' does his own washin'. An' things are in that
state in the house that would make you sick, Miss Panney, if you could
see them. What the rain doesn't wash goes dirty; an' as for that old cook
they've got, if she isn't drunk all the time, her mind's givin' way, an'
I expect she'll end by pizenin' all of them. The vittles she gave me to
eat, bein' nearly tired to death when I got thar, was sich that they give
me pains that I hain't got over yit. And what would have happened if I'd
eat a full meal, nobody knows."

"Get out with you," cried Miss Panney. "I don't want any more of your
jealousy and spite. If that woman gave you anything to eat, I expect it
was the only decently cooked thing you ever put into your mouth. Did you
see Mr. Haverley? Were the Drane women still there? How were they all
getting on together?"

Phoebe's eyes sparkled, and her voice took in a little shrillness.

"I was goin' to git the minister to write you a letter 'bout that, Miss
Panney," said she; "but you didn't tell me whar you was goin', nor give
me no money for stamps nor nothin'. But I kin say to you now that that
woman, which some people may call a cook, but I don't, she told me,
without my askin' a word 'bout nothin', that Mr. Hav'ley an' that little
Miss Drane was to be married in the fall, an' that they was goin' away,
all of them, to the wife's mother's to live, bein' that that old farm
out thar didn't pay to run, an' never would. I reckoned they'd git sick
of it afore this, which I always said."

"Phoebe!" exclaimed Miss Panney, "I do not believe a word of all that!
How dare you tell me such a lot of lies?"

Phoebe was getting very angry, though she did not dare to show it; but
instead of taking back anything she had said, she put on more lie-power.

"You may believe me, Miss Panney, or you needn't; that's just as you
choose," she said "but I can tell you more than I have told you, and that
is, that from what I've seen and heard, I believe Mr. Hav'ley an' Miss
Drane is married already, an' that they was only waitin' for the
Tolbridges to come home to send out the cards."

Miss Panney glared at the woman. "I tell you what I believe, and that
is that you never went to Cobhurst at all. You must tell me something,
and you are making up the biggest story you can," and with this she
marched away.

"I reckon the next time she sends me on an arrand," thought Phoebe,
whose face would have been very red if her natural color had not
interfered with the exhibition of such a hue, "she'll send me in a hack,
and pay me somethin' for my time. I was bound to tell her 'zactly what
she didn't want to hear, an' I reckon I done it, an' more'n that if she
gets her back up 'bout this, an' goes out to Cobhurst, that old cook'll
find herself in hot water. It was mighty plain that she was dreadful
skeered for fear anybody would think thar was somethin' goin' on 'twixt
them two."

If Phoebe had been more moderate in her doubleheaded treachery, Miss
Panney might have been much disturbed by her news, but the story she had
heard was so preposterous that she really believed that the lazy colored
woman had not gone to Cobhurst, and by the time she reached the Bannister
house her mind was cleared for the reception of fresh impressions.

She was fortunate enough to find Dora alone, and as soon as it was
prudent she asked her what news she had heard from Cobhurst. Dora was
looking her loveliest in an early autumn costume, and answered that she
had heard nothing at all, which surprised Miss Panney very much, for she
had expected that Miriam would have been to see Dora before this time.

"Common politeness would dictate that," said Miss Panney, "but I expect
that that child is so elated and excited by getting back to the head of
her household that everything else has slipped out of her mind. But if
you two are such close friends, I don't think you ought to mind that sort
of thing. If I were you, I would go out and see her. Eccentric people
must be humored."

"They needn't expect that from me," said Dora, a little sharply. "If
Miriam lived there by herself, I might go; but as it is, I shall not. It
is their duty to come here, and I shall not go there until they do."

Miss Panney drummed upon the table, but otherwise did not show her
impatience.

"We can never live the life we ought in this world, my dear," she said,
"if we allow our sensitive fancies to interfere with the advancement of
our interests."

"Miss Panney," cried Dora, sitting upright in her chair, "do you mean
that I ought to go out there, and try to catch Ralph Haverley, no matter
how they treat me?"

"Yes," said Miss Panney, leaning back in her chair, "that is exactly what
I mean. There is no use of our mincing matters, and as I hold that it is
the duty of every young woman to get herself well married, I think it is
your duty to marry Mr. Haverley if you can. You will never meet a man
better suited to you, and who can use your money with as much advantage
to yourself. I do not mean that you should go and make love to him, or
anything of that sort. I simply mean that you should allow him to expose
himself to your influences."

"I shall do nothing of the kind!" cried Dora, her face in a flush; "if he
wants that sort of exposure, let him come here. I don't know whether I
want him to come or not. I am too young to be thinking of marrying
anybody, and though I don't want to be disrespectful to you, Miss Panney,
I will say that I am getting dreadfully tired of your continual harping
about Ralph Haverley, and trying to make me push myself in front of him
so that his lordship may look at me. If he had been at Barport, or there
had been any chance of his coming there, I should have suspected that you
went there for the express purpose of keeping us up to the work of
becoming attached to each other. And I say plainly that I shall have no
more to do with exerting influence on him, through his sister or in any
other way. There are thousands of other men just as good as he is, and
if I have not met any of them yet, I have no doubt I shall do so."

"Dora," said Miss Panney, speaking very gently, "you are wrong when you
say that there was no chance of Ralph's coming to Barport. If some things
had not gone wrong, I have reason to believe he would have been there
before you left, and I am quite sure that if you had stayed there until
now, you would have been walking on the sands with him at this minute."

Dora looked at her in surprise, and the flush on her face subsided a
little.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "You do not think he would have gone there
on my account?"

"Yes, I do," said Miss Panney. "That is exactly what I mean, and now, my
dear Dora, do not let--"

At this moment Mrs. Bannister walked into the room, and was very glad
to see Miss Panney, and to know that she had returned in safety from
the seashore.

When Dora went up to her room, after the visitor had gone, she shut the
door and sat down to think.

"After all," she said to herself, "I do not believe much in the thousand
other men. Not one of them is here, and none may ever come, and if Ralph
really did intend to come to me at the seashore, I wish we had stayed
there. It is such a good place to find out just how people feel."

In this frame of mind she sat and thought and thought, until a servant,
who had been to the post office, came up and brought her a note from
Miriam Haverley.

The next morning Dora Bannister, in an open carriage, drawn by the
family bays, appeared at the door of the Witton mansion. Miss Panney,
with overshoes on and a little shawl about her, for the mornings were
beginning to be cool, was walking up and down between two rows of
old-fashioned boxwood bushes. She hurried forward, for she knew very well
that Dora had not come to call on the Wittons.

"Miss Panney," said the young lady, "I am on my way to Cobhurst, and I
thought you might like to go there, and so if you choose, I shall be glad
to take you with me."

"Now, my dear girl," said Miss Panney, "you are a trump. I always thought
you were, but I will not say anything more about that. I shall be
delighted to go with you, and we can talk on the way. If you will come in
or take a seat on the piazza, I shall be ready in five minutes."

As Miss Panney busied herself preparing for the drive and the call, her
mind was a great deal more active than her rapid fingers. She had been
intending to go to Cobhurst, but did not wish to do so until she had
decided what she should say to Ralph about the telegram she had sent him.
Until that morning, this had given her very little concern, but as the
time approached when it would be absolutely necessary to speak upon the
subject, she found that she was a good deal concerned about it. She saw
that it was very important that nothing should be said to rouse Ralph
into opposition.

But now everything seemed bright and clear before her. After Dora,
looking perfectly lovely, as she did this morning, had shone upon Ralph
for half an hour, or even less, the old lady felt that if the young man
asked her any questions about her telegram she would not in the least
mind telling him how she came to send it, giving him, of course, a
version of her motive which would make him understand her anxious
solicitude, in case anything had happened to any one dear to him, that
his arrival should not be delayed an instant, as well as the sympathetic
delight she would have felt in witnessing the joy his presence in Barport
would cause to the dear ones, alive and well.

This somewhat complicated explanation might need policy and alteration,
but Miss Panney now felt quite ready for anything Ralph might ask about
the telegram. If any one else asked any questions, she would answer as
happened to please her.

As they drove away Miss Panney immediately began to congratulate Dora on
her return to her senses. She was in high good humor, "You ought to know,
my dear, that if the loveliest woman in the world found herself stuck in
a quagmire, it would be quite foolish for her to expect that the right
sort of man would come and pull her out. In all probability it would be
precisely the wrong sort of man who would do it. Consequently, it would
be wise in her if she saw the right sort of man going by, not only to let
him know that she was there, but to let him understand that she was worth
pulling out. All women are born in a quagmire, and some are so anxious to
get out that they take the first hand that is stretched toward them, and
some, I am sorry to say, never get out at all. But they are the wise
ones who do not leave it to chance, who shall be their liberators. Number
yourself, my dear, among this happy class. I am so glad it is cool enough
this morning for you to wear that lovely costume. It is as likely as not
that by tomorrow it will be too warm. All these little things tell, my
child, and I am glad to know that even the thermometer is your friend."

"I had a letter from Miriam yesterday afternoon," said Dora, "in which
she told me that her brother Ralph is engaged to Miss Drane."

Miss Panney turned around like a weather vane struck by a squall. She
seized the girl's arm with her bony fingers.

"What!" she exclaimed.

Ordinarily, the pain of the old lady's grasp would have made Dora wince,
but she did not seem to feel it. Without the slightest sign of emotion in
her face, she answered,--

"It is so. It happened while I was at Barport."

"Stop!" cried Miss Panney, in a voice that made the driver pull up his
horses with a jerk. In a moment she had stepped from the low carriage to
the ground, and with quick strides was walking back to the Witton house.
Dora turned in the seat, looked after her, and laughed. It was a sudden,
bitter laugh, which the circumstances made derisive.

Never before had Miss Panney's soul been so stung, burned, and
lacerated, all at once, as by this laugh. But the sound had scarcely
left Dora Bannister's lips when she bounded out of the carriage and ran
after the old lady. Throwing her arms around her neck, she kissed her
on the cheek.

"I am awfully sorry I did that," she said, "and I beg your pardon. I
don't mind the thing a bit, and won't you let me take you home in the
carriage?"

Dora might as well have embraced a milestone and talked to it, for
the moment she could release herself, Miss Panney stalked away
without a word.

When she was again driving toward Cobhurst, Dora took from the front of
the carriage a little hand mirror, and carefully arranged her hat, her
feathers, her laces and ribbons. Then having satisfied herself that her
features were in perfect order, she put back her glass.

"I am not going to let any of them see," she said, "that I mind it in
the least."




CHAPTER XLI

PANNEYOPATHY AND THE ASH-HOLE


Neither Ralph nor his sister nor either of the Drane ladies had the least
reason to believe that Dora minded the news contained in Miriam's note,
except that it had given her a heartfelt delight and joy, and that it had
made her unable to wait a single moment longer than was necessary to come
and tell them all how earnestly she congratulated them, and what a
capital good thing she thought it was. She caught Ralph by himself and
spoke to him so much like a sympathetic sister that he was a little,
just the least little bit in the world, pained.

As Cicely had never had any objection to Miss Bannister, excepting her
frequent appearances in Ralph's conversation, she received Dora's
felicitations with the same cordiality that she saw in her lovely eyes
and on her lips. And Mrs. Drane thought that if this girl were a sample
of the Haverleys' friends and neighbors, her daughter's lot would be even
more pleasant than she had supposed it would be. As for Miriam, she and
Dora walked together, their arms around each other's waists, up and down
in the garden, and back and forward in the orchard, until the Bannister
coachman went to sleep on his box.

During this long interview, the younger girl became impressed, not only
with the fact that Dora thought so well of the match, that, if she had
been looking for a wife for Ralph, she certainly would have selected Miss
Drane, but with the stability of Miss Bannister's affection for her,
which did not seem to be affected in the least by the changes which would
take place in the composition of the Cobhurst household. Dora had said,
indeed, that she had no doubt that she and Miriam would be more intimate
than ever, because Mr. Haverley would be so monopolized by his wife.

This was all very pleasant to Miriam, but it did not in the least cause
her to regret Ralph's choice. Dora was a lovely girl, but it was now
plainer than ever that she was also a very superior one, whereas Cicely
was just like other people and did not pretend to be anything more, and,
moreover, she would not have wished her brother to marry anyone whose
idea of matrimony was the monopoly of her husband, and she knew that
Cicely had no such idea. But Dora was the dearest of good friends, Miriam
was very sure of that.

The Bannister carriage had scarcely left the Cobhurst gates when the dog,
Congo, came bounding after it. Dora looked at him as his great brown eyes
were turned up towards her, and his tail was wagging with the joy of
following her once more, she knew that his training was so good that she
had only to tell him to go back and he would obey her, sorrowfully, with
his tail hanging down. He was Ralph's dog now, and she ought to send him
back, but would she? She looked at him for a few moments, considering the
question, and then she said,--

"Come, Congo" and with a bound he was in the carriage and at her feet.
"You were not an out and out gift, poor fellow," she said, stroking his
head. "I expected you to be partly my dog, all the same, and now we will
see if she will let him claim you."

The dog heard all this, but Dora spoke so low, the coachman could not
hear it, and she did not intend that any one else should know it unless
the dog told.

Ralph did not miss Congo until the next morning, and then, having become
convinced that the dog must have followed the Bannister carriage, he
expressed, in the presence of Cicely, his uncertainty as to whether it
would be better for him to go after the dog himself, or to send Mike.

"If I were you," said Miss Cicely, "I would not send for him at all. If
Miss Bannister really wants to get rid of him, and does not know anybody
else who would take him, she may send him back herself. But it seems to
me that a setter is not the best sort of a dog for a farm like this. I
should think you ought to have a big mastiff, or something of that sort."

"It is a great pity," said Ralph, musingly, "that he happened to be
unchained."

"The more I think about it," said Cicely, "the less I like setters. They
are so intimately connected with the death of the beautiful. Did you ever
think of that?"

Ralph never had, and as a man now came up to talk to him about hay, the
dog and everything connected with it passed out of his mind.

When Miss Panney reached home after her abrupt parting from Dora
Bannister, she took a dose of the last medicine that Dr. Tolbridge had
prescribed for her. It was against her rules to use internal medicines,
but she made exceptions on important occasions, and as this was a remedy
for the effects of anger, she had taken it before and she took it now.
Then she went to bed and there she stayed until three o'clock the next
afternoon. This greatly disturbed the Wittons, for they had always
believed that this hearty old lady would not be carried off by any
disease, but when her time had come would simply take to her bed and die
there, after the manner of elderly animals.

About the middle of the afternoon Mrs. Witton came up into her room. She
did not do this often, for the old lady had always made everybody in the
house understand that this room was her castle, and when any one was
wanted there, he or she would be summoned.

"You must be feeling very badly," said the meek and anxious Mrs. Witton
"don't you think it would be better to send for a doctor?"

"There is no doctor," said Miss Panney, shortly.

"Oh yes," said the other, "there are several excellent doctors in
Thorbury, and Dr. Parker takes all of Dr. Tolbridge's practice while
he is away."

"Stuff!" remarked Miss Panney. "I spanked Dr. Parker, when he wore
little frocks, for running his tin wheelbarrow against me so that I
nearly fell over it."

"But he has learned a great deal since then," pleaded Mrs. Witton "and if
you do not want any new doctors, isn't there something I can do for you?
If you will tell me how you feel, it may be that some sort of herb
tea--or a mustard plaster--"

"Gammon and spinach!" cried Miss Panney, throwing off the bedclothes as
if she were about to spring into the middle of the floor. "I want no teas
nor plasters. I have had as much sleep as I care for, and now I am going
to get up. So trot downstairs, if you please, and tell Margaret to bring
me up some hot water."

For an hour or two before supper time, Miss Panney occupied herself in
clearing out her medicine closet. Every bottle, jar, vial, box, or
package it contained was placed upon a large table and divided into two
collections. One consisted of the lotions and medicines prescribed for
her by Dr. Tolbridge, and the other of those she herself, in the course
of many years, had ordered or compounded,--not only for her own use, but
for that of others. She had long prided herself on her skill in this sort
of thing, and was always willing to prepare almost any sort of medicine
for ailing people, asking nothing in payment but the pleasure of seeing
them take it.

When everything had been examined and placed on its appropriate end of
the table, Miss Panney called for an empty coalscuttle, into which she
tumbled, without regard to spilling or breakage, the whole mass of
medicaments which had been prepared or prescribed by herself, and she
then requested the servant to deposit the contents of the scuttle in
the ash-hole.