"I do not doubt it," said Miss Panney.

"Do you believe," said the doctor, after a moment's pause, "that it is
wise or right in a girl like Dora Bannister, accustomed to fine living,
good society, and an atmosphere of opulence, to allow a poor man like
Ralph Haverley to fall in love with her? And he will do it, just as sure
as the world turns round."

"Well, let him do it," replied the old lady. "I did not intend to give my
opinion on this subject, because, as you know, I am not fond of obtruding
my ideas into other people's affairs, but I will say, now, that Dora
Bannister will have to travel a long distance before she finds a better
man for a husband than Ralph Haverley, or a better estate on which to
spend her money than Cobhurst. I believe that money that is made in a
neighborhood like this ought to be spent here, and Thomas Bannister's
money could not be better spent than in making Cobhurst the fine estate
it used to be. I do not believe in a girl like Dora going off and
marrying some city fellow, and perhaps spending the rest of her life at
the watering-places and Paris. I want her here; don't you?"

"I certainly do, but you forget Mr. Ames."

"I do, and I intend to forget him," she replied, "and so does Dora."

The doctor shook his head. "I do not like it," he said; "young Haverley
may be all very well,--I have a high opinion of him, already, but he is
not the man for Dora. If he had any money at all, it would be different,
but he has not. Now she would not be content to live at Cobhurst as it
is, and he ought not to be content to have her do everything to make it
what she would have it."

"Doctor," said Miss Panney, "if there is anything about all this in your
medicine books, perhaps you know more than I do, and you can go on and
talk; but you know there is not, and you know, too, that I was a very
sensible middle-aged woman when you were toddling around in frocks and
running against people. I believe you are trying to run against somebody
now. Who is it?"

"Well," said the doctor, "if it is anybody, it is young Haverley."

Miss Panney smiled. "You may think so," she said, "but I want you to know
that you are also running against me, and I say to you, confidentially,
and with as much trust in you as I used to have that you would not tell
who it was who spread your bread with forbidden jam, that I have planned
a match between these two; and if they marry, I intend to make pecuniary
matters more nearly even between them, than they are now."

The doctor looked at her earnestly.

"Do you suppose," said he, "that he would take money from you?"

"What I should do for him," she answered, "could not be prevented by him
or any one else."

"But there is no reason," urged the other.

The old lady smiled, took off her glasses, wiped them with her
handkerchief, and put them on again.

"There is so little in medicine books," she said. "His grandfather was
my cousin."

"The one--?" asked the startled doctor.

"Yes, that very one," she answered quickly; "but he does not know it,
and now we will drop the subject. I will try to get to Cobhurst
to-morrow before Dora leaves, and I will see if I cannot help matters
along a little."

The doctor laughed. "I was going to ask you to interfere with matters."

"Well, don't," she said. "And now tell me about your cook. Is she as
good as ever?"

"As good?" said the doctor. "She is better. The more she learns about our
tastes, the more perfectly she gratifies them. Mrs. Tolbridge and I look
upon her as a household blessing, for she gives us three perfect meals a
day, and would give us more if we wanted them; the butcher reverences
her, for she knows more about meat and how to cut it than he does. Our
man and our maid either tremble at her nod or regard her with the deepest
affection, for I am told that they spend a great deal of their time
helping her, when they should be attending to their own duties. She has,
in fact, become so necessary to our domestic felicity, and I may say, to
our health, that I do not know what will become of us if we lose her."

"Is there any chance of that?" eagerly asked the old lady.

"I fear there is," was the answer.

Miss Panney sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing.

"Now look here, Dr. Tolbridge," she said, "don't tell me that that woman
is going to leave you because she wants higher wages and you will not pay
them. I beg you to remember that I got you that woman. I saw she was what
you needed, and I worked matters so that she came to you. She has proved
to be everything that I expected. You are looking better now than I have
seen you look for five years. You have been eating food that you like,
and food that agrees with you, and a chance to do that comes to very few
people in your circumstances. There is no way in which you could spend
your money better than--"

The doctor raised his hand deprecatingly.

"There is no question of money," he said. "She has not asked for higher
wages, and if she had, I should pay anything in reason. The trouble is
more serious. You may remember that when she first came to this country,
she lived with the Dranes, and she left them because they could no longer
afford to employ her. She has the greatest regard for that family, and
has lately heard that they are becoming poorer and poorer. There are only
two of them,--mother and daughter,--and on account of some sort of unwise
investment they are getting into a pretty bad way. I used to know Captain
Drane, and was slightly acquainted with his family. I heard of their
misfortune through a friend in Pennsylvania, and as I knew that La Fleur
took such an interest in the family, I mentioned it to her. The result
was disastrous; she has been in a doleful mood ever since, and yesterday
assured Mrs. Tolbridge that if it should prove that Mrs. Drane and her
daughter, who had been so good to her, had become so poor that they
could not afford to employ a servant, she must leave us and go to them.
She would ask no wages and would take no denial. She would stay with them
and serve them for the love she bore them, as long as they needed her. I
know she is in earnest, for she immediately wrote to Mrs. Drane, and
asked me to put the letter in the post-office; and, by the way, she
writes a great deal better hand than I do."

Miss Panney, who had reseated herself, gazed earnestly at the floor.

"Doctor," she said, "this is very serious. I have not yet met La Fleur,
but I very much want to. I am convinced that she is a woman of character,
and when she says she intends to do a thing, she will do it. That is,
unless somebody else of character, and of pretty strong character too,
gets in her way. I do not know what advice to give you just now, but she
must not leave you. That must be considered as settled. I am coming to
your house to-morrow afternoon, and please ask Mrs. Tolbridge to be at
home. We shall then see what is to be done."

"There is nothing to be done," said the doctor, rising. "We cannot
improve the circumstances of the Dranes, and we cannot prevent La Fleur
from going to them if her feelings prompt her to do it."

"Stuff!" said the old lady. "There is always something to be done. The
trouble is, there is not always some one to do it; but, fortunately for
some of my friends, I am alive yet."




CHAPTER XVI

"KEEP HER TO HELP YOU"


It was about ten o'clock the next morning when Miss Panney drove over to
Cobhurst in her phaeton. She did not go up to the house, but tied her
roan mare behind a clump of locust trees and bushes, where the animal
might stand in peace and shade. Then she walked around the house, and
hearing the clatter of crockery in the basement, she looked down through
a kitchen window, and saw Mike washing the breakfast dishes.

Going on toward the back of the house, she heard voices and laughter over
in the garden. Behind a tangled mass of raspberries, she saw a pink
sunbonnet and a straw hat with daisies in it. She knew, then, that Dora
and Miriam were picking berries, and then her eyes and ears began to
search for Ralph.

She went up on the back piazza and looked over toward the barn, which
appeared to be closed, and around and about the house, but saw nothing
of the young man. But she would wait; it was scarcely likely that he was
at work in the fields by himself. He would probably appear soon, and, if
possible, she wanted to speak to him before she saw any one else. She
went into the house, and took a seat in the hall, where, through a
narrow window by the side of the door, she had a good view of the garden
and the grounds at the back, and could also command the front entrance
of the house.

Miss Panney had been seated but a very few minutes when the two girls
emerged from the bosky intricacies of the garden.

"Upon my word!" exclaimed the old lady, "she has got on Judith Pacewalk's
teaberry gown. I could never forget that!"

At this moment there was a clatter of hoofs and a rattle of wheels, and a
brown horse, drawing a very loose-jointed wagon, with Ralph Haverley, in
a broad hat and light tennis jacket, driving, dashed up to the back door
and stopped with a jerk.

"Back so soon!" cried Miriam. "See what a lot of raspberries we have
picked. I will take them into the house, and then come out and get the
things you have brought."

As Miriam went around toward the kitchen, Ralph sprang to the ground, and
Dora approached him. Miss Panney could see her face under the sunbonnet.
It was suffused with the light of a smiling, beaming welcome.

"You did go quickly, didn't you?" she said. "You must be a good driver."

"I didn't want to lose any time," answered Ralph, "and I made Mrs.
Browning step along lively. As it was, I was afraid that your brother
might arrive before I got back and that I might find you were gone."

"It was a pity," said Dora, "that you troubled yourself to hurry back.
You may have wanted to do other things in Thorbury, and if Herbert missed
seeing you to-day he would have plenty of other opportunities."

Ralph laughed. "I should like to meet your brother," he said, "but I am
bound to say that I was thinking more of the new cook. I did not want her
to leave before I got back."

Dora raised her sunbonnet toward him. Miriam's steps were heard
approaching.

"You might have felt sure," she said, "that she would not have gone
without seeing you again. You have been so kind and good to her that she
would not think of doing that." Then, as Miriam was very near, she
approached the wagon. "Did you get the snowflake flour, as I told you?"
she asked. "Yes, I see you did, and I am glad you listened to my advice,
and bought only a bag of it, for you know you may not like it."

"If it is the flour you use, I know we shall like it," said Ralph; "but
still I am bound to follow your advice."

"You would better follow me, now," said Miriam, who had taken some
parcels from the wagon, "and bring that bag into the pantry. I do not
like Mike to come into our part of the house with his boots."

Ralph shouldered the bag, and Dora stepped up to him.

"I will stay with the horse until you come out again," she said, not
speaking very loudly.

Miss Panney, who had heard all that had been said, smiled, and her black
eyes twinkled. "Truly," she said to herself, "for so short an
acquaintance, this is getting on wonderfully."

Miriam, her arms full of parcels, and her mind full of household economy,
walked rapidly by Miss Panney without seeing her at all, and, entering
the dining-room, passed through it into the pantry. But when Ralph
appeared in the open doorway, the old lady rose and confronted him, her
finger on her lip.

"I have just popped in to make a little call on your sister," she
whispered; "but I saw she was pretty well loaded as she passed, and I did
not wish to embarrass her--I do not mind embarrassing you. Don't put down
the bag, I beg. I shall step into the drawing-room, and you can say I am
there. By the way, who is that young woman standing by the horse?"

"It is Miss Bannister," answered Ralph, his face unreasonably flushing as
he spoke. "She is visiting Miriam and helping her."

When Miss Panney wished to influence a person in favor of or against
another person, she was accustomed to go about the business in a very
circumspect way, and to accommodate the matter and the manner of her
remarks to the disposition of the person addressed, and to the occasion.
She wished very much to influence Ralph in favor of Miss Bannister, and
if she had had the opportunity of a conversation with him, she knew she
could have done this in a very easy and natural way. But there was no
time for conversation now, and she might not again have the chance of
seeing him alone, so she adopted a very different course, and with as
much readiness and quickness as Daniel Boone would have put a rifle-ball
into the head of an Indian the moment he saw it protrude from behind a
tree, so did Miss Panney concentrate all she had to say into one shot,
and deliver it quickly.

"Help Miriam, eh?" she whispered; "take my advice, my boy, and keep her
to help you." And without another word she proceeded to the drawing-room,
where she seated herself in the most comfortable chair.

Ralph stood still a minute with the bag on his shoulder. He scarcely
understood what had been said to him, but the words had been so well
aimed and sent with such force that before he reached Miriam and the
pantry his mind was illumined by the shining apparition of Dora as his
partner and helpmate. Two minutes before there had been no such
apparition. It is true that his mind had been filled with misty,
cloudlike sensations, entirely new to it, but the words of the old lady
had now condensed them into form.

When Miriam was informed of the visitor in the drawing-room, she frowned
a little, and made up a queer face, and then, taking off her long apron,
went to perform her duty as lady of the house.

Ralph returned to Dora, and as he looked at the girl who was patting the
neck of the brown mare, she seemed to have changed, not because she was
different from what she had been a few minutes before, but because he
looked upon her differently. As he approached, every word that she had
spoken to him that day crowded into his memory. The last thing she had
said was that she would wait until he returned to her, and here she was,
waiting. When he spoke, his manner had lost the free-heartedness of a
little while before; there was a slight diffidence in it.

Hearing that Miss Panney was in the house, Dora turned her bonnet
downward, and she also frowned a little.

"Why should that old person come in this very morning?" she thought.

But in an instant the front of the bonnet was raised toward Ralph, and
upon the young face under it there was not a shadow of dissatisfaction.

"Of course I must go in and see her," she said, and then, speaking as if
Ralph were one on whom she had always been accustomed to rely for
counsel, "do you think I need go upstairs and change my dress? If this is
good enough for you and Miriam, isn't it good enough for Miss Panney?"

As Ralph gazed into the blue eyes that were raised to his, it was
impossible for him to think of anything for which their owner was not
good enough. This impression upon him was so strong that he said, with
blurting awkwardness, that she looked charming as she was, and needed not
the slightest change. The value of this impulsive remark was fully
appreciated by Dora, but she gave no sign of it, and simply said that if
he were suited, she was.

They were moving toward the house when Dora suddenly laid her hand
upon his arm.

"You have forgotten the horse, Mr. Ralph," she said.

The touch and the name by which she called him for the first time made
the young man forget, for an instant, everything in the world, but the
girl who had touched and spoken.

"Have you anything to tie her with? Oh, yes, there is a chain on
that post."

As Ralph turned the horse toward the hitching-post, Dora ran before him,
and stood ready with the chain in her hand.

"Oh, no," she said, as he motioned to take it from her, "let me hook it
on her bridle. Don't you want to let me help you at all?"

As side by side Dora and Ralph entered the drawing-room, Miss Panney
declared in her soul that they looked like an engaged couple, coming to
ask for her blessing. And when Dora saluted her with a kiss, and, drawing
up a stool, took a seat at her feet, the old lady gave her her blessing,
though not audibly.

As Miss Panney was in a high good humor, she wanted everybody else to be
so, and in a few minutes even the sedate Miriam was chatting freely and
pleasantly.

"And so that graceless Phoebe has left you," said the old lady; "to board
the minister, indeed! I will see that minister, and give him a text for a
sermon. But you cannot keep up this sort of thing, my young friends; not
even with Dora's help." And she stroked the soft hair of Miss Bannister,
from which the sunbonnet had been removed.

"I will see Mike before I go, and send him for Molly Tooney. Molly is a
good enough woman, and if I send for her, she will come to you until you
have suited yourselves with servants. And now, my dear child, where did
you find that gay dress? Upstairs in some old trunk, I suppose. Stand
over there and let me look at you. It is a good forty years since I have
seen that gown. Do you know to whom it used to belong? But of course you
do not. It was Judith Pacewalk's teaberry gown."

"And who was Judith Pacewalk?" asked Dora; "and why was it teaberry? It
is not teaberry color."

"No," said Miss Panney; "the color had nothing to do with it, but I must
say it has kept very well. Let me see," taking out her watch, "it is not
yet eleven o'clock, and if you young people have time enough, I will tell
you the story of that gown. What does the master say?"

Ralph declared that they must have the story, and that time must not be
considered.




CHAPTER XVII

JUDITH PACEWALK'S TEABERRY GOWN


"Judith Pacewalk," said Miss Panney, "was Matthias Butterwood's cousin.
Before Matthias got rich and built this house, he lived with his Aunt
Pacewalk on her farm. That was over at Pascalville, about thirty miles
from here. He superintended the farm, and Judith and he were very good
friends, although he never showed any signs of caring anything for her
except in the way of a cousin; but she cared for him. There was no doubt
about that. I lived in Pascalville, then, and used to be a great deal at
their house, and it was as plain as daylight to me that Judith was in
love with her cousin, although she was such a quiet girl that few people
suspected it, and I know he did not.

"The Pacewalks were poor, and always had been; and it could not be
expected that a man like Matthias Butterwood could stay long on that
little farm. He had a sharp business head, and was a money-maker, and as
soon as he was able he bought a farm of his own, and this is the farm;
but there was no house on it then, except the little one that Mike now
lives in. But Matthias had grand ideas about an estate, and in the course
of five years he built this house and the great barn, and made a fine
estate of it.

"When this was going on, he still lived with his Aunt Pacewalk. He did
not want to go to his own house until everything was finished and ready.
Of course, everybody supposed he would take a wife there, but he never
said anything about that, and gave a sniff when the subject was
mentioned. During the summer in which Cobhurst was finished--he named the
place himself--he told his aunt that in the fall he was going there to
live, and that he wanted her and Judith to come there and make him a
visit of a month. He said he intended to have his relations visit him by
turns, and that was the sort of family he would have. Now it struck me
that if Judith went there and played her cards properly, she could stay
there as mistress. Although she was a girl very much given to keeping her
own counsel, I knew very well that she had something of the same idea.

"As I said before, the Pacewalks were poor, and although they lived well
enough, money was scarce with them, and it was seldom that they were able
to spend any of it for clothes. But about this time Judith came to me--I
was visiting them at the time--and talked a little about herself, which
was uncommon. She said that if she went to Matthias' fine new house, and
sat at the head of his table,--and of course that would be her place
there, as it was at her mother's table,--she thought that she ought to
dress better than she did. 'I do not mean,' she said, 'that I want any
fine clothes for company; but I ought to have something neat and proper
for everyday wear, and I want you to help me to think of some way to buy
it.' So we talked the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the
best way to do was to try to gather teaberries enough to pay for the
material for a chintz gown.

"In those days--I don't know how it is now--Pascalville was the greatest
place for teaberries. They used them as a flavor for candy, ice-cream,
puddings, cakes, and I don't know what else. They made summer drinks of
it, and it was used as a perfume for home-made hair-washes and
tooth-powder. So Judith and I and a girl named Dorcas Stone, who was a
friend of ours, went to work gathering teaberries in the woods. We worked
early and late, and got enough to trade off at the store for the ten
yards of chintz with which that gown is made.

"As for the making of it, Judith and I did all that ourselves. Dorcas
Stone might be willing enough to go with us to pick berries, but when
she found what was to be bought with them, she drew out of the business.
She was not a girl who was particularly sharp about seeing things
herself, or keeping people from seeing through her; but she wanted to
marry Matthias Butterwood, and when she found Judith was to have a new
gown she would have nothing to do with it, which was a pity, for she was
a very fine sewer, especially as to gathers.

"We cut the gown from some patterns we got from a magazine; I fitted it,
and we both sewed. When it was done, and Judith tried it on, it was very
pretty and becoming, and she looked better in it than in the gown she
wore when she went to a party. When we had seen that everything was all
right, Judith took off the dress, folded it up, and put it away in a
drawer. 'Now,' said she, 'I shall not wear that until I go to Cobhurst.'

"Well, as everybody knows, houses are never finished at the time they are
expected to be, and that was the way with this house, and as Matthias
would not go into it until everything was quite ready, the moving was put
off and put off until it began to be cold weather, and then he said he
would not go into it until spring, for it would be uncomfortable to live
in the new house in the winter.

"I was very sorry for this, for I thought that the sooner Judith got here
the better her chance would be for staying here the rest of her life.
Judith did not say much, but I am sure she was sorry too, and Matthias
seemed a little out of spirits, as if he were getting a little tired of
living with the Pacewalks, and wanted to be in his own house. I think he
began to feel more like seeing people, and I know he visited the Stones a
good deal.

"One day when I was at the Pacewalks' and we were sitting alone, he
looked at me and my clothes, and then he said, 'I wish Judith cared more
for clothes than she does. I do not mean getting herself up for high days
and holidays, but her everyday clothes. I like a woman to wear neat and
becoming things all the time.' 'I am sure,' I said, 'Judith's clothes are
always very neat!'

"'If you mean clean,' he said, 'I will agree to that, but when the color
is all washed out of a thing, or it is faded in streaks like that blue
gown she wears, the wearing of it day after day is bound to make a person
think that a young woman does not care how she looks to her own family,
and I do not like young women not to care how they look to their
families, especially when calico is only twelve cents a yard, and needles
and thread cost almost nothing.' 'Matthias,' said I, 'I expect you have
been to see Dorcas Stone, and are comparing her clothes with Judith's.
Now, Dorcas' father is a well-to-do man, and Judith hasn't any father,
and she does the best she can with the clothes she has.' 'It is not money
I am talking about,' he said, 'it is disposition. If a young woman wants
to look well in her own family, she will find some way to do it. At any
rate, she could let it be seen that she is not satisfied to look like a
dowdy.' And then he went away.

"This was the first time that Matthias had ever spoken to me about
Judith, and I knew just as well as if he had told me that it was Dorcas
Stone's clothes that had got him into that way of thinking.

"More than that, I knew he would never have taken the trouble to say that
much about Judith if he had not been taking more interest in her than he
ever had before. He was a practical, businesslike man, and I believed
then, and I believe now, that he was looking for some one to be mistress
of Cobhurst, and if Judith had suited his ideas of what such a woman
ought to be, he would have preferred her to any one else. I think that
was about as far as he was likely to go in such matters at that time,
though of course if he had gotten a loving wife, he might have become a
loving husband, for Matthias was a good fellow at bottom, though rather
hard on top.

"When he had gone, I went straight upstairs to Judith, and said to her,
if she knew what was good for her, she would get out that teaberry gown
and put it on for supper, and wear it regularly at meals and at all times
when it would be suitable as a house gown. 'I shall do nothing of the
sort,' she said; 'I got it to wear when I go to Cobhurst, and I shall
keep it until then. If I put it on now, it will be a poor-looking thing
by spring.' I told her that was all nonsense, and she could wear that and
get another in the spring, but she shook her head and was not to be
moved. Now, I would have been glad enough to give her the stuff to make a
new gown, but I had hinted at that sort of thing before, and did not
intend to do it again, for she was a good deal prouder than she was poor.
Nor could I think of telling her what Matthias had said, for not only
was she very sensitive, and would have been hurt that he should have
talked to me in that way about her, but she would not have consented to
dress herself on purpose to please a man's fancy.

"I could not do anything more then, but I have always been a matchmaker,
and I did not give up this match. I did everything I could to make Judith
look well in the eyes of Matthias, and I said everything I could to make
his eyes look favorably on her, but it was all of no use. Judith went to
a Christmas party, and she wore a purple silk gown that had belonged to
her mother. It was rather large for her, and a good deal heavier than
anything she had been accustomed to wear, and she got very warm in the
crowded room, and coming home in a sleigh, she caught cold, and died in
less than a month.

"So you see, my dears, Judith Pacewalk never wore her teaberry gown, in
which, I believe, she would have been mistress of Cobhurst. When her
mother died, not long afterward, everything they owned went to Matthias
and his brother Reuben. The Pacewalk farm was sold, and all the personal
property of both brothers, including that disastrous box of bones, was
brought here, where it is yet, I suppose; and so, my good young people, I
imagine you will not wonder that I was surprised to see that pink gown
again, having helped, as I did, with every seam, pleat, and gather of it.
If you will look at it closely, you will see that there is good work on
it, for Judith and I knew how to use our needles a good deal better than
most ladies do nowadays."

Miriam now spoke with much promptness.

"I am ever so glad to hear that story, Miss Panney," she said, "and as
that teaberry gown should have been worn by the mistress of Cobhurst, I
intend to wear it myself, every day, as long as it lasts, and if it does
not fit me, I can alter it."

Whether this remark, which was delivered with considerable spirit, was
occasioned by the young girl's natural pride, or whether a little
jealousy had been aroused by the evident satisfaction with which the
old lady gazed at Dora, arrayed in this significant garment, Miss
Panney could not know, but she took instant alarm. Nothing could be
more fatal to her plans than to see the sister opposed to them. She
had been delighted at the intimacy that had evidently sprung up
between her and Dora, but she knew very well that if this sedate
school-girl should resent any interference with her prerogatives, the
intimacy would be in danger.

Miss Panney had no doubt that Dora and Ralph were on the right road, and
would do very well if left to themselves, but she scarcely believed that
the young man was yet sufficiently in love to brave the opposition of his
sister, which would be all the more wild and unreasonable because she was
yet a girl, and in a position of which she was very proud.

For Dora and Ralph to marry, Dora and Miriam should be the best of
friends, so that both brother and sister should desire the alliance,
and in furtherance of this happy result, Miss Panney determined to
take Dora away with her. She had been at Cobhurst long enough to
produce a desirable impression upon Ralph, and if she stayed longer,
there was no knowing what might happen between her and Miriam. Dora, as
well as the other, was high-spirited and young, and it was as likely as
not that as she showed an inclination to continue to wear the teaberry
gown, there would be a storm in which matrimonial schemes would be
washed out of sight.

"Dora," said Miss Panney, "I am now going to drive to Thorbury, and it
will be a great deal better for you to go with me than to wait for your
brother, for it may be very late in the day before he can come for you.
And more than that, it is ten to one that by this time he has forgotten
all about you, especially if his office is full of clients. So please
get yourself ready as soon as possible. And, Miriam, if you will come
over to see me some morning, and bring that teaberry gown with you, I
will alter it to fit you, and arrange it so that you can do the sewing
yourself. It is very appropriate that the little lady of the house
should wear that gown."

Into the minds of Dora and Miss Panney there came, simultaneously, this
idea: that no matter how much or how often Miriam might wear that gown,
she would not be the first one whom it had figuratively invested with the
prerogatives of the mistress of Cobhurst.

Miss Bannister, who well knew her brother's habits, agreed to the old
lady's suggestion, and it was well she did so, for when she got home,
Herbert declared that he had been puzzling his mind to devise a plan for
sending for his sister and the broken buggy on the same afternoon. As
for going himself, it was impossible.

When Dora came downstairs arrayed in her proper costume, Ralph thought
her a great deal prettier than when she wore the pink chintz. Miss
Panney thought so, too, and she managed to leave them together, while
she went with Miriam to get pen and paper with which to write a note to
Molly Tooney.

"Molly cannot read," said the old lady, "but if Mike will take that to
her, she will come to you and stay as long as you like," and then she
went on to talk about the woman until she thought that Ralph and Dora had
had about five minutes together, which she considered enough.

"You must both come and see me," cried Miss Bannister, as, leaning from
the phaeton, she stretched out her hand to Miriam.

"Indeed we shall do so," said Ralph, and as his sister relinquished the
hand of the visitor he took it himself.

Miss Panney was not one of those drivers who start off with a jerk. Had
she been such a one, Miss Bannister might have been pulled against the
side of the phaeton, for the grasp was cordial.




CHAPTER XVIII

BLARNEY FLUFF


About three o'clock that afternoon, La Fleur, Mrs. Tolbridge's cook, sat
in the middle of her very pleasant kitchen, composing the dinner. Had she
been the chef of a princely mansion, she could not have given the
subject more earnest nor intelligent consideration. It is true the
materials at hand were not those from which a dinner for princes would
have been prepared. But what she had was sufficient for the occasion, and
this repast for a country gentleman in moderate circumstances and his
wife was planned with conscientiousness as well as skill. From the first
she had known very well that it would be fatal to her pretensions to
prepare for the Tolbridges an expensive and luxurious meal, but she had
determined that they should never sit down to any but a good one.

Her soup had been determined upon and was off her mind, and she had
prepared that morning, from some residuary viands, which would have been
wasted had she not used them in this way, the little entree which was to
follow. Her filet, which the butcher had that morning declared he never
separated from the contiguous portions for any one, but had very soon
afterward cut out for her, lay in the refrigerator, awaiting her pleasure
and convenience. The vegetables had been chosen, and her thoughts were
now intent upon a "sweet" which should harmonize with the other courses.

On a chair, by the door opening into the garden, sat George, the
doctor's man, who was coachman, groom, and gardener, and who, having
picked a basket of peas, had been requested to shell them. By an open
window, Amanda, the chambermaid, was extracting the stones from a little
dish of olives.

George was working rapidly and a little impatiently.

"Madam," said he, "do you want all these peas shelled?"

La Fleur turned and looked at him with a pleasant smile.

"I want enough to surround my filet, but whether you shell enough for us
to have any, depends entirely on your good will, George."

"Of course I'll shell as many as you want," said he, "but I've got a lot
to do this afternoon. There is the phaeton to be washed, that I don't
want the doctor to come home and find muddy yet; and I ought to have done
it this morning, madam, when I was walking about the garden with you, a
tellin' you what I had and a hearin' what I ought to have."

"I was so glad to have you go with me, and show me everything," said La
Fleur, "because I do not yet exactly understand American gardens. It is
such a nice garden, too, and you do not know how pleased I was, after you
left me and I was coming to the house, to see that fine bed of
aubergines. When will any of them be ripe, do you think, George?"

The man looked up in surprise.

"There is nothing of that sort in my garden," said he. "I never
heard of them."

"Oh, yes, you have," said La Fleur, "you call them egg-plants. You see,
I am learning your American names for things. And now, Amanda, if you
have finished the olives I'll get you to make a fine powder of those
things which I have put into the mortar. Thump and grind them well with
the pestle; they are to make the stuffing for the olives."

"But, madam, what is to become of the sewing Mrs. Tolbridge wants me to
do? I have only hemmed two of the dozen napkins she gave me to do day
before yesterday."

"Now, Amanda," said La Fleur, "you ought to know very well, that without
a meal on the table, napkins are of no use. You might have the meals
without napkins, but it wouldn't work the other way. And I am sure those
napkins are not to be used for a week, or perhaps several weeks, and this
dinner must be eaten to-day. So you can see for yourself--"

At this moment there was a knock at the inner door of the kitchen.

"Who can that be!" exclaimed La Fleur. "Come in."

The door opened, and Miss Panney entered the kitchen. La Fleur rose from
her seat, and for a moment the two elderly women stood and looked at
each other.

"And this is La Fleur," said Miss Panney; "Mrs. Tolbridge has been
talking about you, and I asked her to let me come in and see you. I want
to speak to you for a few minutes, and I will sit down here. Don't you
stand up."

La Fleur liked people to come and talk to her, provided they were the
right sort of people, and came in the right way. Miss Panney's salutation
pleased her; she had a respect for people who showed a proper recognition
of differences of position. If Miss Panney had been brought into the
kitchen by Mrs. Tolbridge and in a manner introduced to La Fleur, the
latter would have regarded her as something of an equal, and would not
have respected her. Had the old lady accosted her in a supercilious
manner, La Fleur would have disliked her, even if she had supposed she
were a person to be respected. But Miss Panney had filled all the
requirements necessary for the cook's favorable opinion. In the few words
she had spoken, she had shown that she was a friend of the mistress of
the house; that she had heard interesting things of the cook, and
therefore wished to see her; that she knew this cook was a woman of
sense, who understood what was befitting to her position, and would
therefore stand when talking to a lady, and, moreover, in consequence of
the fact that this cook was superior to her class, she would waive the
privileges of her class, and request the cook to sit, while talking to
her. To have waived this privilege without first indicating that she knew
La Fleur would acknowledge her possession of it, would have been damaging
to Miss Panney.

Upon the features of La Fleur, which were inclined to be bulbous, there
now appeared a smile, which was very different from that with which she
encouraged and soothed her conscripted assistants. It was a smile that
showed that she was pleasurably honored, and it was accompanied by a
slight bow and a downward glance. Then turning to the man and the maid,
she told them in a low voice that they might go, a permission of which
they instantly availed themselves.

Miss Panney now sat down, and La Fleur, pushing her chair a little away
from the table, availed herself of the permission to do likewise.

"I have eaten some of your cooking, La Fleur," said Miss Panney, "and I
liked it so much that I wished to ask you something about it. For one
thing, where did you get that recipe for that delicious ice, flavored
with raspberry?"

The cook smiled with a new smile--one of genuine pleasure.

"To make that ice," she answered, "one must have more than a recipe: one
must be educated. Tolati, my first husband, invented that ice, and no
chef in Europe could make it but himself. But he taught me, and I make it
for Dr. and Mrs. Tolbridge. It has a quality of cream, though there is no
cream in it."

"I never tasted anything of the kind so good," said Miss Panney, "and
I am a judge, for I have lived long and eaten meals prepared by the
best cooks."

"French, perhaps," said La Fleur.

"Oh, yes," was the reply, "and those of other nations. I have travelled."

"I could see that," said La Fleur, "by your appreciation of my work.
French cooking is the best in the world, and if you have an English cook
to do it, then there is nothing more to be desired. It is like the French
china, with the English designs, which they make now. I once visited
their works, and was very proud of my countrymen."

"The conceited old body," thought Miss Panney; but she said, "Very
true, very true. It is delightful to me to think that my friends here
have a cook who can prepare meals which are truly fit, not only to
nourish the body without doing it any harm, but to gratify the most
intelligent taste. I have noticed, La Fleur, that there is always
something about your dishes that pleases the eye as well as the palate.
When we say that cooking is thoroughly wholesome, delicious, and
artistic, we can say no more."

"You do me proud," said La Fleur, "and I hope, madam, that you may eat
many a meal of my cooking. I want to say this, too: I could not cook for
Dr. and Mrs. Tolbridge as I do, if I did not feel that they appreciate my
work. I know they do, and so I am encouraged to do my best."

"Not only does the doctor appreciate you," said Miss Panney, "but his
health depends upon you. He is a man who is peculiarly sensitive to bad
cooking. I have known him all his life, and known him well. He was
getting in a bad way, La Fleur, when you came here, and you are already
making a new man of him."

"I like to hear that," said La Fleur. "I have a high opinion of Dr.
Tolbridge. I know what he is and what he needs. I often sit up late at
night, thinking of things that will be good for him, and which he will
like. We all work here: every one of the household is industrious, but
the doctor and I are the only ones who must work with our brains. The
others simply work with their bodies and hands."

Miss Panney fixed her black eyes on the bulbous-faced cook.

"The word conceit," she thought, "is imbecile in this case."

"I am glad you are both so well able to do it," she said aloud. "And you
like it here? The place suits you?"

"Oh, yes, madam," replied La Fleur; "it suits me very well. It is not
what I am accustomed to, but I gave up all that of my own accord. Life in
great houses has its advantages and its pleasures, and its ambitions,
too; but I am getting on in years, and I am tired of the worry and bustle
of large households. I came to this country to visit my relatives, and to
rest and enjoy myself; but I soon found that I could not live without
cooking. You might as well expect Dr. Tolbridge to live without reading."

"That is very true, La Fleur," said Miss Panney; "and it seems to me that
you are in the very home where you can spend the rest of your days most
profitably to others, and most happily to yourself. And yet I hear that
you are considering the possibility of not staying here."

"Yes," answered La Fleur, "I am considering that; but it is not because I
am dissatisfied with anything here. It is altogether a different
question. I am very much attached to the family I first lived with in
this country. They are in trouble now, and I think they may need me. If
they do, I shall go to them. I have quite settled all that in my mind. I
am now waiting for an answer to a letter I have written to Mrs. Drane."

"La Fleur," said Miss Panney, "if you leave Dr. Tolbridge, I think it
will be a great mistake; and, although I do not want to hurt your
feelings, I feel bound to say that it will be almost a crime."

The cook's face assumed an expression of firmness.

"All that may be," she said, "but it makes no difference. If they need
me, I shall go to them."

"But cannot somebody else be found to go to them? You are not as
necessary there as you are here, nor so highly prized. They let you go of
their own accord."

"No one else will go to them for nothing," said La Fleur, "and I
shall do that."

Miss Panney sat with her brows knit.

"If the Dranes have become poor," she said presently, "it is natural that
you should want to help them; but it may not be at all necessary that you
should go to them. In fact, by doing that, you might embarrass them very
much. There are only two of them, I believe,--mother and daughter. Do
they do anything to support themselves?"

"Miss Cicely is trying to get a situation as teacher. If she can do that,
she can support her mother. At present they are doing nothing, and I fear
have nothing to live on. I know my going to them would not embarrass
them. I can help them in ways you do not think of."

"La Fleur," said Miss Panney, "your feelings are highly honorable to
you, but you are not going about this business in the right way. I have
heard of the Drane family, and know what sort of people they are. They
would not have you work for them for nothing, and perhaps buy with your
own money the food you cook. What should be done is to help them to
help themselves. If Miss Drane wishes a position as teacher, one should
be got for her."

"That is out of my line," said La Fleur, shaking her head, "out of my
line. I can cook for them, but I can't help them to be teachers."

"But perhaps I can, and I am going to try. What you have told me
encourages me very much. To get a position as teacher for Miss Drane
ought to be easy enough. To get Dr. Tolbridge a cook who could take your
place would be impossible."

La Fleur smiled. "I believe that," she said.

"Now what I do is for the sake of the doctor," continued Miss Panney. "I
do not know the Dranes personally, but I have no objection to benefit
them if I can. But for the sake of a friend whom I have known all his
days, I wish to keep you in this kitchen. I am not afraid to say this to
you, because I know you are not a person who would take advantage of the
opinion in which you are held, to make demands upon the family which they
could not satisfy."

"You need not say anything about that, madam," replied La Fleur. "Nobody
can tell me anything about my work and value which I did not know before,
and as for my salary, I fixed that myself, and there shall be no change."

Miss Panney rose. "La Fleur," she said, "I am very glad I came here to
talk to you. I did not suppose that I should meet with such a sensible
woman, and I shall ask a favor of you; please do not take any steps in
this matter without consulting me. I am going to work immediately to see
what I can do for Miss Drane, and if I succeed it will be far better for
her and her mother than if you went to them. Don't you see that?"

"Yes," said La Fleur, "that is reasonable enough, but I must admit that I
should like to see them."

Miss Panney ignored the latter remark.

"Now do not forget, La Fleur," she said, "to send me word when you get a
letter, and then I may write to Miss Drane, but I shall go to work for
her immediately. And now I will leave you to go on with your dinner. I
shall dine here to-day, and I shall enjoy the meal so much better because
I know the chef who prepared it."

La Fleur resumed her seat and the consideration of her "sweet."

"She is a wheedling old body," she said to herself, "but I suppose I
ought to give her something extra for that speech."

The next morning Mrs. Tolbridge came into the kitchen. "La Fleur," said
she, "what is the name of that delicious dessert you gave us last night?"

The cook sighed. "She will always call the 'sweet' a dessert," she
thought; and then she answered, "That was Blarney Fluff, ma'am, with
sauce Irlandaise."

Mrs. Tolbridge laughed. "Whatever is its name," she said, "we all thought
it was the sweetest and softest, most delightful thing of the kind we had
ever tasted. Miss Panney was particularly pleased with it."

"I hoped she would be," said La Fleur.




CHAPTER XIX

MISS PANNEY IS "TOOK SUDDEN"


"I have spoken to Mr. Ames about it," said Dr. Tolbridge to Miss Panney,
as two days later they were sitting together in his office, "and we are
both agreed that teachers in Thorbury are like the vines on the gable
ends of our church; they are needed there, but they do not flourish. You
see, so many of our people send their children away to school, that is,
when they are really old enough to learn anything."

"I would do it too, if I had children," said the old lady; "but this is a
matter which rises above the ordinary points of view. I do not believe
that you look at it properly, for if you did you would not sit there and
talk so coolly. Do you appreciate the fact that if Miss Drane does not
soon get something to do, you will be living on soggy, half-baked bread,
greasy fried meat, water-soaked vegetables, and muddy coffee, and every
one of your higher sentiments will be merged in dyspepsia?"

The doctor smiled. "I did not suppose it would be as bad as that," he
said; "but if what you say is true, let us skip about instantly, and do
something."

"That is the sort of action that I am trying to goad you into," said
the old lady.

"Oh, I will do what I can," said the doctor, "but I really think there is
nothing to be done here, and at this season. People do not want teachers
in summer, and I see no promise of a later demand of this sort in
Thorbury. We must try elsewhere."

"Not yet," said the other. "I shall not give up Thorbury yet. It is
easier for us to work for Miss Drane here than anywhere else, because we
are here, and we are not anywhere else. Moreover, she will like to come
here, for then she will not be among strangers; so please let us exhaust
Thorbury before thinking of any other place."

"Very good," said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, "and now let us
exhaust Thorbury as fast as we can, before a patient comes in. I am
expecting one."

"If she comes, she can wait," said Miss Panney. "You have a case here
which is acute and alarming, and cannot be trifled with."

"How do you know I expect a 'she'?" asked the doctor.

"If it had been a man, he would have been here and gone," said
Miss Panney.

Miss Panney knew as well as any one that immediate employment as a
teacher could be rarely obtained in summer, and for this reason she
wished to confine her efforts to the immediate neighborhood, where
personal persuasion and influence might be brought into action.
Moreover, she had said to herself, "If we cannot get any teaching for
the girl, we must get her something else to do, for the present. But
whatever is to be done must be done here and now, or the old woman will
be off before we know it."

She sat for a few moments with her brows knitted in thought. Suddenly
she exclaimed, "Is it Susan Clopsey you expect? Very well, then, I will
make an exception in her favor. She is just coming in at the gate, and I
would not interfere with your practice on her for anything. She has got
money and a spinal column, and as long as they both last she is more to
be depended on than government bonds. If her troubles ever get into her
legs, and I have reason to believe they will, you can afford to hire a
little maid for your cook. Old Daniel Clopsey, her grandfather, died at
ninety-five, and he had then the same doctorable rheumatism that he had
at fifty. I have something to think over, and I will come in again when
she is gone."