"If my sister is in the barn at all," said Ralph, "I think she must be on
the floor above this, for there is the hay, and the hens' nests, if there
are any--"

"Oh, let us go up there," said Dora; "that is just where we ought to
find her."

There was not the least affectation in Dora's delight, as she stood on
the wide upper floor of the barn. Its great haymows rose on either side,
not piled to the roof as before, but with enough hay left over from
former years to fill the air with that delightful scent of mingled
cleanliness and sweetness which belongs to haylofts. At the back was a
wide open door with a bar across it, out of which she saw a
far-stretching landscape, rich with varied colors of spring, and through
a small side door at the other end of the floor, which there was level
with the ground, came a hen, clucking to a brood of black-eyed, downy
little chicks, which she was bringing in for the night to the spacious
home she had chosen for them.

Whether or not Dora would have enjoyed all this as much had she been
alone is a point not necessary to settle, but she was a true country
girl, and had loved chickens, barns, and hay from her babyhood up. She
stepped quickly to the open door, and she and Ralph leaned upon the bar
and looked out upon the beautiful scene.

"How charming it will be," she said, "for your sister to come here and
sit with her reading or sewing. She can look out and see you, almost
wherever you happen to be on your farm."

"I don't believe Miriam will be content to sit still and watch anybody,"
replied Ralph. "I wonder where she can be;" and twice he called her, once
directing his voice up toward the haymows and once out into the open air.
Dora still leaned on the bar and looked out.

"It would be nice if we could see her walking somewhere in the fields,"
she said, and she and Ralph both swept the landscape with their eyes, but
they saw nothing like a moving girl in shade or sunshine.

Miss Bannister was not in the least embarrassed, as she stood here with
this young man whom she had met such a little time before. She did not
altogether feel that she was alone with him. The thought that any moment
the young man's sister might make one of the party, produced a sensation
not wholly unlike that of knowing she was already there.

The view of the far-off hills with the shadows across their sides and
their forest-covered tops glistening in the sunshine was very
attractive, and there was a blossomy perfume in the outside air which
mingled charmingly with the hay-scents from within; but Dora felt that
it would not do to protract her pleasure in these things, especially as
she noticed signs of a slight uneasiness on the face of her companion.
Probably he wanted to go and look for his sister, so they walked slowly
over the floor of the great hayloft, and out of the little door where
the hen and chickens had come in, and Ralph accompanied the young lady
to her carriage.

"I am sure I shall find Thomas and the horses fast asleep," said she,
"for I have made a long call, or, at least, have tried to make one, and
you must tell your sister that my stay proves how much I wanted to see
her. I hope she will call on me the first time she comes to Thorbury."

"Oh, I shall drive her over on purpose," said Ralph, and, with a smile,
Miss Bannister declared that would be charming.

When the carriage had rolled upon the smooth road outside of Cobhurst,
Miss Dora drew off her left glove and looked at her wrist. "Dear me!"
said she to herself, "I thought he would have squeezed those buttons
entirely through my skin, but I wouldn't have said a word for anything. I
wonder what sort of a girl his sister is. If she resembles him, I know I
shall like her."




CHAPTER VIII

MRS. TOLBRIDGE'S REPORT IS NOT ACCEPTED


A few days after Miss Bannister's call at Cobhurst, it was returned by
Ralph and Miriam, who drove to Thorbury with the brown mare and the gig.
To their disappointment, they found that the young lady was not at home,
and the communicative maid informed them that she had gone to the city to
help Mrs. Tolbridge to get a new cook.

They went home by the way of the Witton house, and there they found
Miss Panney at home. The old lady was very much interested in Miriam,
whom she had not before seen out of bed. She scrutinized the girl from
hat to boots.

"What do you want me to call you, my dear?" she asked. "Don't you
honestly think you are too young to be called Miss Haverley?"

"I think it would be very well if you were to call me Miriam," said the
other, who was of the opinion that Miss Panney was old enough to call any
woman by her Christian name.

The conversation was maintained almost entirely by the old lady and
Ralph, for Miriam was silent and very solemn. Once she broke in with a
question:--

"What kind of a person is Miss Bannister?" she asked. Miss Panney gave a
short laugh.

"Oh, she is a charming person," she answered, "pretty, good-humored,
well educated, excellent taste in dress and almost everything, and very
lively and pleasant to talk to. I am very fond of her."

"I am afraid," said Miriam, "that she is too old and too fine for me,"
and turning to a photograph album she began to study the family
portraits.

"Your sister's ideas are rather girlish as yet," said Miss Panney, "but
housekeeping at Cobhurst will change all that;" and then she went on with
her remarks concerning the Haverley and Butterwood families, a subject
upon which Ralph was not nearly so well informed as she was.

When the brother and sister had driven away, Miss Panney reflected that
the visit had given her two pieces of information. One was that the
Haverley girl was a good deal younger than she had thought her, and the
other was that Mrs. Tolbridge was really trying to get a new cook. The
first point she did not consider with satisfaction.

"It is a pity," she thought, "that Dora and his sister are not likely to
be friends. That would help wonderfully. This schoolgirl, probably
jealous of the superiority of grown-up young ladies, may be very much in
the way. I am sorry the case is not different."

In regard to the other point the old lady was very well satisfied, and
determined to go soon to see what success Mrs. Tolbridge had had.

About the middle of the next forenoon, Miss Panney tied her horse in
front of the Tolbridge house and entered unceremoniously, as she was in
the habit of doing. She found the doctor's wife standing by the
back-parlor window looking out on the garden. When the old lady had
seated herself she immediately proceeded to business.

"Well, Kitty," said she, "what sort of a time did you have yesterday?"

"A very discouraging and disagreeable one," said Mrs. Tolbridge. "I might
just as well have stayed at home."

"You don't mean to say," asked Miss Panney, "that nobody answered your
advertisement?"

"When I reached the rooms of the Non-Resident Club, where the applicants
were to call--"

"That's the first time," interrupted Miss Panney, "that I ever heard that
that Club was of the slightest use."

"It wasn't of any use this time," said the other; "for although I found
several women there who came before the hour appointed, and at least a
dozen came in the course of the morning, not one of them would do at
all. I was just now looking out at our asparagus bed, and wondering if
any of those beautiful heads would ever be cooked properly. The woman in
our kitchen knows that she is to depart, and she is in a terribly bad
temper, and this she puts into her cooking. The doctor is almost out of
temper himself. He says that he has pretty good teeth, but that he
cannot bite spite."

Miss Panney now appeared to be getting out of temper.

"I must say, Kitty," she said, in a tone of irritation, "that I do not
understand how it was that out of the score or more of applicants, you
could not find a better cook than the good-for-nothing creature you have
now. What was the matter with them?"

"Everything, it seemed to me," answered Mrs. Tolbridge. "Now here
is Dora. She was with me yesterday, and you can ask her about the
women we saw."

Miss Panney attached no value whatever to the opinions, in regard to
domestic service, of the young lady who had just entered the room, and
she asked her no questions. Miss Bannister, however, did not seem in the
least slighted, and sat down to join the chat.

"I suppose," said Miss Panney, sarcastically, "that you tried to find
that woman that the doctor used to say he wanted: a woman who had
committed some great crime, who could find no relief from her thoughts
but in constant work, work, work."

Mrs. Tolbridge smiled.

"No, I did not look for her; nor did I try to find the person who was of
a chilly disposition and very susceptible to draughts. We used to want
one of that sort, but she should be a waitress. But, seriously, there
were objections to every one of them. Religion was a great obstacle. The
churches of Thorbury are not designed for the consciences of city
servants. There was no Lutheran Church for the Swedes; and the fact that
the Catholic Church was a mile from our house, with no street-cars,
settled the question for most of them. The truth is, none of them wanted
to come into the country, unless they could get near Newport or some
other suitable summer resort."

"But there was that funny old body in a shawl," said Dora, "who made no
objections to churches, or anything else in fact, as soon as she found
out your husband wasn't in trade."

"True," replied Mrs. Tolbridge; "she didn't object, but she was
objectionable."

Miss Panney was beginning to fasten her wrap about her. She had heard
quite enough, but still she deigned to snap out:--

"What was the matter with her?"

"Oh, she was entirely out of the question," said the lady of the house.
"In the first place, she was the widow of a French chef, or somebody of
that sort, and has a wonderful opinion of her abilities. She understands
all kinds of cooking,--plain or fancy."

"And even butter," said Dora; "she said she knew all about that."

"Yes; and she understood how butcher's meat should be cut, and the
choosing of poultry, and I know not what else besides."

"And only asked," cried Dora, laughing, "if your husband was in trade;
and when she heard that he was a professional man, was perfectly
willing to come."

Miss Panney turned toward Mrs. Tolbridge, sat up very straight in her
chair, and glared.

"Was not this the very woman you were looking for? Why didn't you
take her?"

"Take her!" repeated Mrs. Tolbridge, with some irritation. "What could I
do with a woman like that? She would want enormous wages. She would have
to have kitchen maids, and I know not whom, besides, to wait on her; and
as for our plain style of living, she could not be expected to stand
that. She would be entirely out of place in a house like this."

"Her looks were enough to settle her case," said Dora. "You never saw
such an old witch; she would frighten the horses."

"Kitty Tolbridge," said Miss Panney, severely, "did you ask that woman if
she wanted high wages, if she required kitchen maids, if she would be
satisfied to cook for your family?"

"No, I didn't," said the other; "I knew it was of no use. It was plain to
see that she would not do at all."

"Did you get her address?"

"Yes," said Dora; "she gave me a card as we were going out, and insisted
on my taking it. It is in my bag at home."

Miss Panney was silent for a moment, and was evidently endeavoring to
cool her feelings so as to speak without indignation.

"Kitty Tolbridge," she said presently, "I think you have deliberately
turned your back on one of the greatest opportunities ever offered to a
woman with a valuable husband. There are husbands who have no value, and
who might as well be hurried to their graves by indigestion as in any
other way, but the doctor is not one of these. Now, whatever you know of
that woman proves her to be the very person who should be in your kitchen
at this moment; and whatever you have said against her is all the result
of your imagination. If I were in your place, I would take the next
train for the city; and before I closed my eyes this night, I would know
whether or not such a prize as that were in my reach. I say prize because
I never heard of such a chance being offered to a doctor's wife in a
country town. Now what are you going to do about it, Kitty? If your
regard for your husband's physical condition is not sufficient to make
you look on this matter as I do, think of his soul. If you don't believe
that true religion and good cooking go hand in hand, wait a year and then
see what sort of a husband you will have."

Mrs. Tolbridge felt that she ought to resent this speech, that she ought
to be, at least, a little angry; but when she was a small girl, Miss
Panney was an old woman who sometimes used to scold her. She had not
minded the scoldings very much then, and she could not bring herself to
mind this scolding very much now. Occasionally she had scolded Miss
Panney, and the old lady had never been angry.

"I shall not go to the city," she said, with a smile; "but I will write,
and ask all the questions. Then our consciences will be easier."

Miss Panney rose to her feet.

"Do it, I beg of you," she said, "and do it this morning. And now, Dora,
if you walked here, I will drive you home in my phaeton, for you ought to
send that address to Mrs. Tolbridge without delay."

As the old roan jogged away from the doctor's house, Miss Panney remarked
to her companion, "I needn't have hurried you off so soon, Dora, for it
is three hours before the next mail will leave; but I did want Mrs.
Tolbridge to sit down at once and write that letter without being
interrupted by anything which you might have come to tell her. Of course,
the sooner you send her the address, the better."

"The boy shall take it to her as soon as I get home," said Dora.

She very much disliked scoldings, and had not now a word to say against
the old body who would frighten the horses. Desirous of turning the
conversation in another direction without seeming to force it, "It seems
to me," she said, "that Mr. and Miss Haverley ought to have somebody
better to cook for them than old Phoebe. I have always looked upon her as
a sort of a charwoman, working about from house to house, doing anything
that people hired her to do."

"That's just what those Haverleys want," said Miss Panney. "At present,
everything is charwork at their place, and as to their food, I don't
suppose they think much about it, so that they get enough. At their age
they can eat anything."

"How old is Miss Haverley?" asked Dora.

"Miss Haverley!" repeated Miss Panney, "she's nothing but a girl, with
her hair down her back and her skirts a foot from the ground. I call
her a child."

A shadow came over the soul of Miss Bannister.

Would it be possible, she thought, to maintain, with a girl who did not
yet put up her hair or wear long skirts, the intimacy she had hoped to
maintain with Mr. Haverley's sister?

Very much the same idea was in the mind of Miss Panney, but she thought
it well to speak encouragingly. "I wish, for her brother's sake, the girl
were older," said she: "but housekeeping will help to mature her much
more quickly than if she had remained at school. And as for school," she
added, "it strikes me it would be a good thing for her to go back
there--after awhile."

Dora thought this a good opinion, but before she could say anything on
the subject, she lifted her eyes, and beheld Ralph Haverley walking down
the street toward them. He was striding along at a fine pace, and looked
as if he enjoyed it.

"I declare," ejaculated Miss Bannister, "here he is himself. We shall
meet him."

"He? who?" and Miss Panney looked from side to side of the road, and the
moment she saw the young man, she smiled.

It pleased her that Dora should speak of him as "he," showing that the
brother was in her mind when they had been talking of the sister.

Miss Panney drew up to the sidewalk, and Ralph stopped.

He was greatly pleased with the cordial greeting he received from
the two ladies. These Thorbury people were certainly very sociable
and kind-hearted. The sunlight was on Dora's soul now, and it
sparkled in her eyes.

"It was my other hand that I gave you when I met you before," she said,
with a charming smile.

"Yes," said Ralph, also with a smile, "and I think I held it an
uncommonly long time."

"Indeed you did," said Dora; and they both laughed.

Miss Panney listened in surprise.

"You two seem to know each other better than I supposed," she said. "When
did you become acquainted?"

"We have met but once before," replied Dora, "but that was rather a
peculiar meeting." And then she told the story of her call at Cobhurst,
and of the mare's forelock, and the old lady was delighted with the
narration. She had never planned a match which had begun so auspiciously.
These young people must be truly congenial, for already a spirit of
comradeship seemed to have sprung up between them. But of course that
sort of thing could not be kept up to the desirable point without the
assistance of the sister. In some way or other, that girl must be
managed. Miss Panney determined to give her mind to it.

With Ralph standing close by the side of the phaeton, the reins lying
loose on the back of the drowsy roan, and Dora leaning forward from her
seat, so as to speak better with the young man, the interview was one of
considerable length, and no one seemed to think it necessary that it
should be brought to a close. Ralph had come to attend to some business
in the town, and had preferred to walk rather than drive the brown mare.

"Did you ever catch that delightfully obstinate creature?" cried Dora.
"And did you give your sister a drive in the gig?"

"Oh, yes," said Ralph, "I easily caught her again, and I curried and
polished her up myself, and trimmed her mane and tail and fetlocks, and
since she has been having good meals of oats, you can hardly imagine
what a sleek-looking beast she has become. We drove her into Thorbury
when Miriam returned your call. I am sorry you were not at home, so that
you might have seen what a change had come over Mrs. Browning."

Dora looked inquiringly.

"That is the name that Miriam has given to the mare."

Dora laughed.

"If Mrs. Browning is one of your sister's favorite poets," she said,
"that will be a bond between us, for I like her poems better than I do
her husband's, at least I understand them better. I wonder if your sister
will ever ask me to take a drive with her in the gig? I could show her so
many pretty places."

"Indeed she will," said Ralph; "but you mustn't think we are going to
confine ourselves to that sedate conveyance and the old mare. The colts
are old enough to be broken, and when they are ready to drive we shall
have a spanking team."

"That will be splendid," exclaimed Dora. "I cannot imagine anything more
inspiriting than driving with a pair of freshly broken horses."

Miss Panney gave a little sniff.

"That sort of thing," she said, "sometimes exalts one's spirit so high
that it is never again burdened by the body; but all horses have to be
broken, and people continue to live."

She smiled as she thought that the pair of young colts which she had
taken in hand seemed to give promise of driving together most
beautifully. But it would not do to stop here all the morning, and as
there was no sign that Dora would tire of asking questions or Ralph of
answering them, the old lady gathered up the reins.

"You mustn't be surprised, Mr. Haverley," she said, "if the ladies of
Thorbury come a good deal to Cobhurst. We have more time than the
gentlemen, and we all want to get well acquainted with your sister, and
help her in every way that we can. Miss Bannister is going to drive over
very soon and stop for me on the way, so that we shall call on her
together."

When the young man had bowed and departed, and the old roan was
jogging on, Dora leaned back in the phaeton and said to herself, that,
without knowing it, Miss Panney was an angel. When they should go
together to Cobhurst, the old lady would be sure to spend her time
talking to the girl.




CHAPTER IX

JOHN WESLEY AND LORENZO DOW AT LUNCHEON


Two days after her lecture to Mrs. Tolbridge, Miss Panney was again in
Thorbury, and, having finished the shopping which brought her there, she
determined to go to see the doctor's wife, and find out if that lady had
acted on the advice given her. She had known Mrs. Tolbridge nearly all
that lady's life, and had always suspected in her a tendency to neglect
advice which she did not like, after the adviser was out of the way. She
did not wish to be over-inquisitive, but she intended, in some quiet way,
to find out whether or not the letter about which she had spoken so
strongly had been written. If it had not, she would take time to make up
her mind what she should do. Kitty Tolbridge and she had scolded each
other often enough, and had had many differences, but they had never yet
seriously quarrelled. Miss Panney did not intend to quarrel now, but if
she found things as she feared they were, she intended to interfere in a
way that might make Kitty uncomfortable, and perhaps produce the same
effect on herself and the doctor; but let that be as it might, she
assured herself there were some things that ought to be done, no matter
who felt badly about it.

She found the doctor's wife in a state of annoyance and disquiet, and was
greatly surprised to be told that this condition had been caused by a
note which had just been brought to her from her husband, stating that he
had been called away to a distant patient, and would not be able to come
home to luncheon.

"My dear Kitty!" exclaimed Miss Panney, "I should have thought you were
thoroughly used to that sort of thing. I supposed a country doctor would
miss his mid-day meal about half the time."

"And so he does," said Mrs. Tolbridge; "but I was particularly anxious
that he should lunch at home to-day, and he promised me that he would."

"Well," said the old lady, "you will have to bear up under it as well
as you can, and I hope they will give him something to eat wherever he
is going."

Mrs. Tolbridge seemed occupied, and did not answer.

"Miss Panney," she said suddenly, "will you stay and take lunch with me?
I should like it ever so much."

"Are you going to have strawberries?" asked Miss Panney.

Mrs. Tolbridge hesitated a little, and then replied, "Yes, we shall
have them."

"Very well, then, I'll stay. The Witton strawberries are small and sour
this year; and I haven't tasted a good one yet."

During the half hour which intervened before luncheon was announced, Miss
Panney discovered nothing regarding the matter which brought her there.
She would ask no questions, for it was Kitty Tolbridge's duty to
introduce the subject, and she would give her a chance; but if she did
not do it in a reasonable time, Miss Panney would not only ask questions,
but state her opinion.

When she sat down at the pretty round table, arranged for two persons,
Miss Panney was surprised at the scanty supply of eatables. There was the
tea-tray, bread and butter, and some radishes. Her soul rose in anger.

"Slops and fruit," she said to herself. "She isn't worthy to have any
sort of a husband, much less such a one as she has."

There was a vase of flowers in the centre of the table; but although Miss
Panney liked flowers, at meal-times she preferred good honest food.

"Shall I give you a cup of tea?" asked her hostess.

The old lady did not care for tea, but as she considered that she could
not eat strawberries on an empty stomach, she took some, and was just
about to cast a critical eye on the bread, when a maid entered, bearing a
dish containing two little square pieces of fish, covered with a greenish
white sauce, and decorated with bits of water-cress.

As soon as Miss Panney's eyes fell upon this dish, she understood the
situation--Mrs. Tolbridge had actually fallen back upon Kipper. Kipper
was a caterer in Thorbury, and a good one. He was patronized by the
citizens on extraordinary festive occasions, but depended for his custom
principally upon certain families who came to the village for a few
months in the summer, and who did not care to trouble themselves with
much domestic machinery.

"Kipper, indeed," thought the old lady; "that is the last peg. A
caterer's tid-bit for a hard-working man. If she would have her fish
cooked properly in her own house, she could give him six times as much
for half the money. And positively," she continued, in inward speech, as
the maid presented the bread and butter, "Kipper's biscuit! I suppose she
is going to let him provide her with everything, just as he does for
those rich people on Maple Avenue."

The fish was very good, and Miss Panney ate every morsel of it, but made
no remark concerning it. Instead of speaking of food, she talked of the
doings of the Methodist congregation in Thorbury, who were planning to
build a new church, far more expensive than she believed they could
afford. She was engaged in berating Mr. Hampton, the minister, who, she
declared, was actually encouraging his flock in their proposed
extravagance, when the maid gave her a clean plate, and handed her a dish
of sweetbread, tastefully garnished with clover blossoms and leaves. Miss
Panney stopped talking, gazed at the dish for a minute, and then helped
herself to a goodly portion of its contents.

"Feathers," she said to herself; "no more than froth and feathers to a
man who has been working hard half a day, and as to the extravagance of
such flimsy victuals--" She could keep quiet no longer, she was obliged
to speak out, and she burst into a tirade against people who called
themselves pious, and yet, wilfully shutting their eyes, were about to
plunge into wicked wastefulness. She ate as she talked, however, and she
had brought up John Wesley, and was about to give her notion of what he
would have had to say about a fancy church for a Thorbury congregation,
when the plates were again changed, and a dainty dish of sirloin steak,
with mushrooms, and thin slices of delicately browned potatoes, was put
before her.

"Well!" inwardly ejaculated the old lady, "something substantial at last.
But what money this meal must have cost!"

As she cut into the thick, juicy piece of steak, which had been broiled
until it was cooked enough, and not a minute more, Miss Panney's mind
dropped from the consideration of congregational finances into that of
domestic calculation. She knew Kipper's charges; she knew everybody's
charges.

"That dish of fish," she said to herself, "was not less than sixty cents;
the sweetbreads cost a dollar, if they cost a cent; this sirloin, with
mushrooms, was seventy-five cents; that, with the French biscuit, is two
dollars and a half for a family lunch for two people."

Miss Panney did not let her steak get cold, for she could talk and eat at
the same time, and the founder of Methodism never delivered so scorching
a tirade against pomp and show in professors of religion as she gave
forth in his name.

Mrs. Tolbridge had been very quiet during the course of the meal, but
she was now constrained to declare that she had nothing to do with the
plans for the new Methodist church, and, in fact, she knew very little
about them.

"Some things concern all of us," retorted Miss Panney. "Suppose Bishop
White, when he was ordained and came back to this country, had found a
little village--"

Her remarks were stopped by a dish of salad. The young and tender leaves
of lettuce were half concealed by a mayonnaise dressing.

"This makes three dollars," thought Miss Panney, as she helped herself,
"for Kipper never makes any difference, even if you send your own lettuce
to be dressed." And then she went on talking about Bishop White, and what
he would have thought of a little cathedral in every country town.

"But the Methodists do not have cathedrals," said Mrs. Tolbridge.

"Which makes it all the worse when they try to build their
meeting-houses to look like them," replied the old lady.

It was a long time since Miss Panney had tasted any mayonnaise dressing
as good as this. But she remembered that the strawberries were to come,
and did not help herself again to salad.

"If one of the old Methodist circuit-riders," she said, "after toiling
over miles of weary road in the rain or scorching sun, and preaching
sometimes in a log meeting-house, sometimes in a barn, and often in a
private house, should suddenly come upon--"

The imaginary progress of the circuit-rider was brought to a stop by the
arrival of the last course of the luncheon. From a pretty glass dish
uprose a wondrous structure. Within an encircling wall of delicate,
candied tracery was heaped a little mound of creamy frost, the sides of
great strawberries showing here and there among the veins and specks of
crimson juice.

Miss Panney raised her eyes from this creation to the face of her
hostess.

"Kitty," said she, "is this the doctor's birthday?"

"No," answered Mrs. Tolbridge, with a smile; "he was born in January."

"Yours then, perhaps?"

Mrs. Tolbridge shook her head.

"A dollar and a half," thought the old lady, "and perhaps more. Five
dollars at the very least for the meal. If the doctor makes that much
between meals, day in and day out, she ought to be thankful."

The dainty concoction to which the blazing-eyed old lady now applied
herself was something she had never before tasted, and she became of the
opinion that Kipper would not get up a dish of that sort, and so much of
it, for less than two dollars.

"There was a Methodist preacher," she said, spoonful after spoonful of
the cold and fruity concoction melting in her mouth as she spoke, "a
regular apostle of the poor, named Lorenzo Dow. How I would like to have
him here. He was a man who would let people know in trumpet tones, by day
and by night, what he thought of wicked, wasteful prodigality, no matter
how pleasant it might be, how easy it might be, or how proper in people
who could afford it. Is there to be anything more, Kitty Tolbridge?"

The doctor's wife could not restrain a little laugh.

"No," she said, "there is to be nothing more, unless you will take a
little tea."

Miss Panney pushed back her chair and looked at her hostess. "Tea after a
meal like that! I should think not. If you had had champagne during the
luncheon, and coffee afterwards, I shouldn't have been surprised."

"I did not order coffee," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "because we don't take it
in the middle of the day, but--"

"You ordered quite enough," said her visitor, severely; "and I will say
this for Kipper, that he never got up a better meal, although--"

"Kipper!" interrupted Mrs. Tolbridge. "Kipper had nothing to do with this
luncheon. It was prepared by my new cook. It is the first meal she has
given us, and I am so sorry the doctor could not be here to eat it."

Miss Panney rose from her chair, and gazed earnestly at Mrs. Tolbridge.

"What cook?" she asked, in her deepest tones.

"Jane La Fleur," was the reply; "the woman you urged me to write to. I
sent the letter that afternoon. Yesterday she came to see me, and I
engaged her. And while we were at breakfast this morning, she arrived
with her boxes, and went to work."

"And she cooked that meal? She herself made all those things?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "she even churned the butter and made the
biscuit. She says she is going to do a great deal better than this when
she gets things in order."

"Better than this!" ejaculated Miss Panney. "Do you mean to say, Kitty
Tolbridge, that this sort of thing is going to happen three times a day?
What have you done? What sort of a creature is she? Tell me all about it
this very minute."

Mrs. Tolbridge led the way to the parlor, and the two sat down.

"Now," said the doctor's wife, "suppose you finish what you were saying
about the Methodist church, then--"

Miss Panney stamped her foot.

"Don't mention them!" she cried. "Let them build tower on tower, spire on
spire, crypts, picture galleries, altars, confessionals, if they like.
Tell me about your new cook."

"It will take a long time to tell you all about her, at least all she
told me," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "for she talked to me more than an hour
this morning, working away all the time. Her name is Jane La Fleur, but
she does not wish any one to call her Jane. She would like the family to
use her last name, and the servants can do the same, or call her 'madam.'
She is the widow of two chefs, one a Florentine, named Tolati, and the
other a Frenchman, La Fleur. She acted as 'second' to each of these, and
in that way has thoroughly learned the art of Italian cooking, as well as
the French methods. She herself is English, and she has told me about
some of the great families she and her husbands lived with."

"Kitty," said Miss Panney, "I should think she was trying to impose upon
you with a made-up story; but after that luncheon I will believe anything
she says about her opportunities. How in the world did you get such a
woman to come to you?"

"Oh, the whole business of engaging her was very simple," answered
Mrs. Tolbridge. "Her last husband left her some money, and she came to
this country on a visit to relatives, but she loved her art so much,
she said--"

"Did she call it art?" asked Miss Panney.

"Yes, she did--that she felt she must cook, and she lived for some time
with a family named Drane, in Pennsylvania, with whom the doctor used
to be acquainted. She had a letter from them which fully satisfied me.
On her part she said she would be content with the salary I paid my
last cook."

"Did she call it salary?" exclaimed the old lady.

"That was the word she used," answered Mrs. Tolbridge, "and as I said
before, the only question she asked was whether or not my husband was
in trade."

"What did that matter?" asked the other.

"It seemed to matter a great deal. She said she had never yet lived with
a tradesman, and never intended to. She was with Mrs. Drane, the widow of
a college professor, for several months, and when the family found they
could no longer afford to keep a servant who could do nothing but cook,
La Fleur returned to her relatives, and looked for another position; but
not until I came, she said, had any one applied who was not in trade."

"She must be an odd creature," said Miss Panney.

"She is odder than odd," was the answer. At this moment the maid came in
and told Mrs. Tolbridge that the madam cook wanted to see her. The lady
of the house excused herself, and in a few minutes returned, smiling.

"She wished to tell me," 'said she, "before my visitor left, that the
name of the 'sweet' which she gave us at luncheon is _la promesse_, being
merely a promise of what she is going to do, when she gets about her
everything she wants."

"Kitty Tolbridge," said Miss Panney, solemnly, "whatever happens, don't
mind that woman's oddity. Keep your mind on her cooking, and don't
consider anything else. She is an angel, and she belongs to the very
smallest class of angels that visit human beings. You may find, by the
dozen, philanthropists, kind friends, helpers and counsellors, the most
loving and generous; but a cook like that in a Thorbury family is as rare
as--as--as--I can't think of anything so rare. I came here, Kitty, to
find out if you had written to that woman, and now to discover that the
whole matter has been settled in two days, and that the doors of Paradise
have been opened to Dr. Tolbridge--for you know, Kitty, that the Garden
of Eden was truly Paradise until they began to eat the wrong things--I
feel as if I had been assisting at a miracle."




CHAPTER X

A SILK GOWN AND A BOTTLE


It was toward the end of June that Miss Dora Bannister returned from a
fortnight's visit to some friends at the seashore, and she had been home
a very little while, when she became convinced that her most important
duty was to go to see that young girl at Cobhurst. It seemed very
strange that so long a time had passed since the arrival of the
Haverleys into the neighborhood, and she had never yet seen his sister.
In Miss Bannister's mind there was a central point, about which
clustered everything connected with Cobhurst: that point was a young
man, and the house was his house, and the fields were his fields, and
the girl was his sister.

It so happened, the very next day, that Herbert Bannister found it
necessary to visit a lady client, who lived about four miles beyond
Cobhurst, and when Dora heard this she was delighted. Her brother should
take her as far as Cobhurst with him; they should start early enough to
give him time to stop and call on Ralph Haverley, which he most certainly
ought to do, and then he could go on and attend to his business, leaving
her at Cobhurst. Even if neither the brother nor the sister were at home,
she would not mind being left at that charming old place. She would take
a book with her, for there were so many shady spots where she could sit
and read until Herbert came back.

Herbert Bannister, whose mind was devoted to business and the happiness
of his sister, was well pleased with this arrangement, and about three
o'clock in the afternoon the buggy containing the two stopped in front of
the Cobhurst portico.

The front door was open, and they could see through the hall and the open
back door into the garden beyond.

Dora laughed as she said, "This is just what happened when I came here
before,--everything wide open, as though there were no flies nor dogs nor
strangers."

Herbert got out and rang the bell: he rang it twice, but no one came.
Dora beckoned him to her.

"It is of no use," she said; "that also happened when I came before.
They don't live in the house, at least in the daytime. But Herbert,
there is a man."

At this moment, the negro Mike was seen at a little distance, hurrying
along with a tin pitcher in his hand. Herbert advanced, and called to
him, and Mike, with his pitcher, approached.

"The boss," he said, in response to their inquiries, "is down in the big
meadow, helpin' me get in the hay. We tried to git extry help, but
everybody's busy this time o' year, an' he an' me has got to step along
pretty sharp to git that hay in before it rains. No, Miss, I dunno where
the young lady is. She was down in the hay-field this mornin', rakin',
but I 'spects she is doin' some sort of housework jes' now, or perhaps
she's in the garden. I'd go an' look her up, but beggin' your pardon, I
ain't got one minute to spare, the boss is waitin' for me now," and,
touching his shabby old hat, Mike departed.

"What shall we do?" asked Herbert, standing by the buggy.

"I think," said Dora, slowly and decisively, as if she had fully
considered the matter, "that you may as well go on, for I don't suppose
it would do to disturb Mr. Haverley now. I know that when people are
making hay, they can't stop for anything."

"You are right," said her brother, with a smile; "hay-making the will of
a rich man on his death-bed; it must be done promptly, if it is done at
all. I shall go on, of course, and you will go with me?"

"No, indeed," said Dora, preparing to get down from the buggy; "I would
not want to wait for you in that tiresome old horse-hair parlor of the
Dudleys. I should ever so much rather sit here, by myself, until you come
back. But of course I shall see her before long. Isn't it funny, Herbert?
I had to look for her when I came here before, and I suppose I shall
always have to look for her whenever I come."

Her brother admitted that it was funny, and accepting her arrangement,
he drove away. Dora rang the bell, and stepped into the hall. "I will
wait here a little while," she said to herself, "then I will go to
Phoebe's house, and ask her where she is. If she does not know, I do not
in the least mind walking over to the hay-field, and calling to Mr.
Haverley. It would not take him three minutes to come and tell me where I
would better go to look for his sister."

At this Miss Bannister smiled a little. She would be really glad to know
if Mr. Haverley would be willing to leave that important hay, and make
everything wait until he came to speak to her. As she stood, she looked
about her; on a table by the wall lay a straw hat trimmed with flowers,
and a pair of long gloves, a good deal soiled and worn. Dora's eyes
passed carelessly over these, and rested on another pair of gloves,
larger and heavier.

"He hasn't driven much, yet," she said to herself, "for they look almost
new. I wonder when he will break his colts. Then, I suppose, he will
drive a good deal."

Dora was a girl who noticed things, and turning to the other side of the
hall, she saw a larger table, and on it lay a powder-horn and a
shot-flask, while in the angle of the table and the wall there stood a
double-barrelled fowling-piece. This sight made her eyes sparkle; he must
like to hunt and shoot. That pleased her very much. Herbert never cared
for those things, but she thought a young man should be fond of guns and
dogs and horses, and although she had never thought of it before, she
now considered it a manly thing to be able to go out into the hay-field
and work, if it happened to be necessary.

She went to the back door, and stood, looking out. There was nobody
stirring about Phoebe's house, and she asked herself if it would be worth
while to go over to it. Perhaps it might be as well to stroll toward the
hay-field. She knew where the great meadow was, because she had looked
over it when she had stood at the wide barn window with Mr. Haverley. He
had pointed out a good many things to her, and she remembered them all.

But she did not go to the hay-field. Just as she was about to step out
upon the back porch, she heard a door open behind her, and turning, saw,
emerging from the closed apartment which contained the staircase, a
strange figure. The head was that of a young girl about fourteen, with
large, astonished blue eyes, and light brown hair hanging in a long plait
down her back, while her form was attired in a plum-colored silk gown,
very much worn, torn in some places, with several great stains in the
front of the skirt, and a long and tattered train. The shoulders were
ever so much too wide, the waist was ever so much too big, and the long
sleeves were turned back and rolled up. In her hand the figure held a
large glass bottle, from the mouth of which hung a short rubber tube,
ending in a bulbous mouth-piece.

Dora could not suppress a start and an expression of surprise, but she
knew this must be Miriam Haverley, and advanced toward her. In a moment
she had recovered her self-possession sufficiently to introduce herself
and explain the situation. Miriam took the bottle in her left hand, and
held out her right to Dora.

"I have been expecting you would call," she said, "but I had no idea you
were here now. The door-bell is in the basement, and I have been
upstairs, trying to get dough off my hands. I have been making bread, and
I had no idea it was so troublesome to get your hands clean afterwards;
but I expect my dough is stickier than it ought to be, and after that I
was busy getting myself ready to go out and feed a calf. Will you walk
into the parlor?"

"Oh, no," cried Dora, "let me go with you to feed the calf; I shall like
that ever so much better."

"It can wait just as well as not," said Miriam; "we can sit in the hall,
if you like," and she moved toward an old-fashioned sofa which stood
against the wall; as she did so, she stepped on the front of her
voluminous silk gown, and came near falling.

"The horrid old thing!" she exclaimed; "I am always tripping over it,"
and as she glanced at Dora the two girls broke into a laugh. "I expect
you think I look like a perfect guy," she said, as they seated
themselves, "and so I do, but you see the calf is not much more than a
week old, and its mother has entirely deserted it, and kicks and horns at
it if it comes near her. It got to be so weak it could scarcely stand up,
and I have adopted it, and feed it out of this bottle. The first time I
did it I nearly ruined the dress I had on, and so I went to the garret
and got this old gown, which covers me up very well, though it looks
dreadfully, and is awfully awkward."

"To whom did it belong?" asked Dora. "It is made in such a queer
way,--not like really old-fashioned things."

"I am sure I don't know to whom it belonged," said Miriam. "There are
all sorts of things in our garret,--except things that are good for some
particular purpose,--and this old gown was the best I could find to
cover me up. It looks funny, but then the whole of it is
funny,--calf-feeding and all."

"Why do you have to make your own bread?" asked Dora. "Don't
Phoebe do that?"

"Oh, Phoebe isn't here now. She went away nearly a week ago, and I do all
the work. I went to Thorbury and engaged a woman to come here; but, as
that was three days ago and she has not come yet, I think she must have
changed her mind."

"But why did Phoebe leave you?" exclaimed Miss Bannister. "She ought to
be ashamed of herself, to leave you without any one to help you."

"Well," replied Miriam "she said she wasn't regularly employed, anyway,
and there were plenty of cooks in the town that I could get, and that she
was obliged to go. You see, the colored church in Thorbury has just got a
new minister, and he has to board somewhere; and as soon as Phoebe heard
that, she made up her mind to take a house and board him; and she did it
before anybody else could get the chance. Mike, her husband, who works
for us, talked to her and we talked to her, but it wasn't of any use. I
think she considers it one of the greatest honors in the world to board a
minister. Mike does not believe in that sort of business, but he says
that Phoebe has always been in the habit of doing what she wants to, and
he is getting used to it."

"But it is impossible for you to do all the work," said Dora.

"Oh, well," replied Miriam, "some of it doesn't get done, and some of it
I am helped with. Mike does ever so much; he makes the fires, and carries
the heavy things, and sometimes even cooks. My brother Ralph helps, too,
when there is anything he can do, which is not often; but just now they
are so busy with their hay that it is harder upon me than it was before.
We have had soda biscuit and all that sort of thing, but I saw that Ralph
was getting tired of them; and to-day I thought I would try and make some
real bread,--though how it is going to turn out, I don't know."

"Come, let us go out and feed the calf," said Dora; "I really want to see
how you do it. I have come to make you a good long call, you must know;"
and then she explained how her brother had left her, while he went on to
attend to his business.

At this Miriam was much relieved. She had been thinking that perhaps she
would better go upstairs and take off that ridiculous silk dress, and
entertain her visitor properly during the rest of her call; but if Miss
Bannister was going to stay a good while, and if there was no coachman
outside to see her and her train, there was no reason why she should not
go and feed the calf, and then come back and put herself into the proper
trim for the reception of visitors. It seemed strange to her, but she was
positively sure that she would not have felt so much at ease with this
handsomely dressed young lady, if she herself had been attired in her
best clothes; but now they had met without its being possible for either
Miss Bannister or herself to make any comparisons of attire. The old,
draggled silk gown did not count one way or the other. It was simply a
covering to keep one's clothes clean when one fed a calf. When they
should return to the house, and she took off her old gown, she and her
visitor would be better acquainted, and their comparative opinions of
each other would not depend so much on clothes. Miriam was accustomed to
making philosophical reflections concerning her relations with the rest
of the world; and in regard to these relations she was at times very
sensitive.




CHAPTER XI

TWO GIRLS AND A CALF


Having gone to the kitchen to fill the bottle with milk, which she had
set to warm, Miriam accompanied her guest to the barn. As she walked by
the side of Dora, with the bottle in one hand and the other holding up
her voluminous silk robe, it was well for her peace of mind that no
stately coachman sat upon a box and looked at her.

In a corner of the lower floor of the barn they found the calf,
lying upon a bed of hay, and covered by a large piece of mosquito
netting, which Miriam had fastened above and around him. Dora
laughed as she saw this.

"It isn't every calf," she said, "that sleeps so luxuriously."

"The flies worried the poor thing dreadfully," said Miriam, "but I take
it off when I feed it."

She proceeded to remove the netting, but she had scarcely done so, when
she gave an exclamation that was almost a scream.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" she cried; "I believe it is dead," and down she sat
upon the floor close to the calf, which lay motionless, with its head and
neck extended. Down also sat Dora. She did not need to consider the
hay-strewn floor and her clothes; for although she wore a very tasteful
and becoming costume, it was one she had selected with reference to barn
explorations, field strolls, and anything rural and dusty which any one
else might be doing, or might propose. No one could tell what dusty and
delightful occupation might turn up during an afternoon at Cobhurst.

"Its eye does look as if it were dead," she exclaimed. "What a pity!"

"Oh, you can't tell by that eye," said Miriam, over whose cheeks a few
tears were now running. "Dr. Tolbridge says it has infantile ophthalmia
in that eye, but that as soon as it gets strong enough, he can cure it.
We must turn up its other eye."

She took the little creature's head in her lap, with the practicable eye
uppermost. This slowly rolled in its socket, as she bent over it.

"There is life in it yet," she cried; "give me the bottle." The calf
slowly rolled its eye to the position from which it had just moved, and
declined to consider food.