"Depart, O mercenary being!" exclaimed the doctor, "before you abase my
thoughts from sulphate of quinia to filthy lucre."

"Lucre is never filthy until you lose it," said the old lady as she went
out on the back piazza, and closed the door behind her.

About twenty minutes later she burst into the doctor's office. "Mercy on
us!" she exclaimed, "are you here yet, Susan Clopsey? I must see you,
doctor; but don't you go, Susan. I won't keep him more than two minutes."

"Oh, don't mind me," cried Miss Clopsey, a parched maiden of twoscore. "I
can wait just as well as not. Where is the pain, Miss Panney? Were you
took sudden?"

"Like the pop of a jackbox. Come, doctor, I must see you in the parlor."

"Can I do anything?" asked Miss Clopsey, rising. "How dreadful! Shall I
go for hot water?"

"Oh, don't be alarmed," said Miss Panney, hurrying the amazed doctor out
of the room; "it is chronic. He will be back in no time."

Miss Clopsey, left alone in the office, sank back in her chair.

"Chronic by jerks," she sighed; "there can be few things worse than that;
and at her age, too!"

"What can be the matter?" asked the doctor, as the two stood in
the parlor.

"It is an idea," said Miss Panney; "you cannot think with what violence
it seized me. Doctor, what became of that book you wrote on the
'Diagnosis of Sympathy'?"

The doctor opened his eyes in astonishment.

"Nothing has become of it. It has been in my desk for two years. I have
not had time even to copy it."

"And of course your writing could not be trusted to a printer. Now what
you should do is this: employ that Drane girl to copy your manuscript.
She can do it here, and if she comes to a word she cannot make out, she
can ask you. That will keep her going until autumn, and by that time we
can get her some scholars."

"Miss Panney," said the doctor, "are you going crazy? I cannot afford
charity on that scale."

"Charity!" repeated the old lady, sarcastically. "A pretty word to use.
By that sort of charity you give yourself one of the greatest of
earthly blessings, in the shape of La Fleur, and you get out a book
which will certainly be a benefit to the world, and will, I believe,
bring you fame and profit. And you are frightened by the paltry sum
that will be necessary to pay the board of the girl and her mother for
perhaps two months. Now do not condemn this plan until you have had
time to consider it. Go back to your Clopsey; I am going to find Mrs.
Tolbridge and talk to her."




CHAPTER XX

THE TEABERRY GOWN IS TOO LARGE


When Dora Bannister had gone away in Miss Panney's phaeton, Miriam walked
gravely into the house, followed by her brother.

"Now," said she, "I must go to work in earnest."

"Work!" exclaimed Ralph. "I think you have been working a good deal
harder than you ought to work, and certainly a good deal harder than I
intend you to work. As soon as he has had his dinner, Mike shall take the
wagon, and go after the woman Miss Panney told us of."

"Of course I have been working," said Miriam, "but while Dora Bannister
was here, what we did was not like straightforward work; it all seemed to
mean something that was not just plain housekeeping. For one thing, the
dough I intended to bake into bread was nearly all used up in making
those rolls that Dora worked up into such pretty shapes; and now, if the
new woman comes, I shall not have another chance to try my hand at
making bread until she leaves us, for I am not going to do anything of
the sort with a servant watching me. And there are all those raspberries
we picked this morning. I am sure I do not know what to do with them, for
there are ever so many more than we shall want to eat with cream. What
was it, Ralph, that you said you liked, made of raspberries?"

Ralph looked a little puzzled.

"I think," he said, "it must have been something of the tart order. What
did I tell you?"

"You did not tell me anything," said Miriam, "and I do not believe that
tarts are ever made of raspberries. Dora Bannister said she wanted to
cook something for you that you told her you liked, but as you have
forgotten what it was, I suppose it does not make much difference now."

Ralph had said so many things to Dora that he could not remember what
remark he had made about cooked raspberries; but it delighted him to
think that, whatever it was, Dora had wished to make it for him.

After dinner Miriam went up to her room, where upon the bed lay Judith
Pacewalk's teaberry gown. She took off her own school-girl dress, and put
on the pink gown. It was the first time she had ever worn the clothes of
a woman. When she had attired herself in the silken robe which had been
so fatal to the fortunes and life of Judith Pacewalk, it had been slipped
on in masquerade fashion, debased from its high position to a mere
protection from spilt milk. Miriam had thought of the purple silk when
Miss Panney was telling her story, and had said to herself that if the
stall in the cow-stable had been ever so much darker and dirtier, and if
the milk stains had been more and bigger, the career of that robe would
have ended all the more justly.

The teaberry gown was too long for Miriam, and too large in every way.
She knew that for herself; but hearing Ralph's footsteps outside, she had
a longing to know what he would say on the subject, so, holding up her
skirt to keep herself from tripping, she ran downstairs and called him
into the big hall.

"How do you like me in the teaberry gown?" she asked.

Without a thought of any figurative significance connected with the
dress, Ralph only saw that it was as unsuitable to his sister as it had
been well suited to Dora.

"You will have to grow a good deal bigger and older before you are able
to fill that gown, my little one," he said.

"That is not the way I do things," said Miriam, severely. "I shall make
the gown fit me."

Ralph was about to say that it would be a pity to cut down and alter that
picturesque piece of old-fashioned attire into an ordinary garment, and
that it would be well to keep it as a family relic, or to give it away to
some one who could wear it as it was, but Miriam's manner assured him
that she was extremely sensitive on the subject of this gown, and he
considered it wise to offer no further opinion about it. So he went about
his affairs, and Miriam, having resumed her ordinary dress, went out with
her cook-book to a bench under a tree on the lawn. She never stayed in
the house when it was possible to be out of doors.

"I wish I could find out," she said to herself, "what Dora Bannister
intended to make for Ralph out of raspberries. Whatever it is, I know I
can make it just as well, and I want to do it all myself before the new
cook comes. It could not have been jam," she said, as she turned over
the leaves; "for Ralph does not care much for jam, and he would not have
told her he liked that. And then there is jelly; but it must take a long
time to make jelly, and I do not believe she would undertake to give him
that for dinner, made from raspberries picked this morning. Besides, I
cannot imagine Ralph saying he wanted jelly for his dinner. Well, well!"
she exclaimed aloud, as she stopped to read a recipe, "they do make
tarts out of raspberries! That must have been it, for Ralph is
desperately fond of every kind of pastry. I will go into the house this
minute, and make him some raspberry tarts. We shall have them for
supper, even if they give him the nightmare. I am not going to have him
say again that he wished the new cook, as he kept calling Dora
Bannister, had stayed a little longer."

Alas! at dinner time Ralph had been guilty of that indiscretion. Without
exactly knowing it, he had missed in the meal a certain very pleasant
element, which had been put into the supper and breakfast by Dora's
desire to gratify his especial tastes. While he missed their visitor in
many other ways, he alluded to her premature departure only in connection
with their domestic affairs.

But so far as Miriam was concerned, he could have done nothing worse
than this. To have heard her brother say that Dora Bannister was the most
lovely girl he had ever seen, and that he was filled with grief at losing
the delights of her society, might have been disagreeable to her, or it
might not. But to have him even in the lightest way intimate that her
housekeeping was preferable to that of his own sister nettled her
self-esteem.

"I will show him," she said, "that he is mistaken."

In the pleasant coolness of the great barn, Ralph stretched himself on a
pile of new-made hay to think. He was a farmer, and he intended to try
to be a good farmer, and he knew that good farmers, during working
hours, do not lie down on piles of hay to think. But notwithstanding
that, in this hay-scented solitude, looking out of the great door upon
the quiet landscape with the white clouds floating over it, he thought
of Dora. He had been thinking of her in all sorts of irregular and
disjointed ways ever since he had risen in the morning; but now he
wished to think definitely, and lay down here for that purpose. One
cannot think definitely and single-mindedly when engaged in farm work,
especially if he sometimes finds himself a little awkward at said work
and is bothered by it.

Whenever he could do it, Ralph Haverley liked to get things clear and
straightforward in his mind. He had applied this rule to all matters of
his former business, and he now applied it to the affairs of his present
estate. But how much more important was it to apply the rules to Dora
Bannister! Nothing had ever put his mind into a condition less clear and
straightforward than the visit of that young lady. The main point to be
decided upon was: what should he do about seeing her again? He was filled
by an all-pervading desire to do that; but how should he set about it?
The simplest plan would be to go and see her; but if he did so, he knew
he ought to take his sister with him, and he had no reason to believe
that Miriam would be in any hurry to return Miss Bannister's visit. If he
had been acquainted with the brother, the case would have been different,
but that gentleman had not yet called upon him.

Having thought some time on this subject, Ralph sat upright, and
rearranged his reflections.

"Why is it," he said to himself, "that I am so anxious to see her again,
and to see her as soon as possible?"

To the solution of this question, Ralph applied the full force of his
intellectual powers. The conclusion that came to him after about six
seconds of deliberation was not well defined, but it indicated that if
almost any young man had had in his house--actually living with him and
taking part in his household affairs--an unusually handsome young woman,
who, not only by her appearance, but by her gentle and thoughtful desire
to adapt herself to the tastes and circumstances of himself and his
sister, seemed to belong in the place into which she had so suddenly
dropped, that young man would naturally want to see that young woman just
as soon as he could. This would be so in any similar case, and there was
no use in trying to find out why it was so in this case.

He rose to his feet, and at that moment he heard Miriam calling to him.

"Ralph," she said, running into the barn, "I have been looking all over
for you. The new woman cannot come to-day."

"I do not see why you should appear so delighted about it," said Ralph;
"I am very sorry to hear it."

"And I am not," replied Miriam. "There are some things I want to do
before she comes, and I am very glad to have the chance. Mike brought
back word from her that if you send the wagon in the cool of the morning,
she will come over with her trunk."

"You are a funny girl," said Ralph, "to be actually pleased at the
prospect of cooking and doing housework a little longer." And as he said
that, he congratulated himself that his sister had not had the chance of
thinking him a funny fellow for lying stretched on the hay when he ought
to have been at work.

Miriam was now in good spirits again. She walked to the great open
window, and, leaning on the bar, looked out.

"What a lovely air," she said, and then she turned to her brother. "It is
nice to have visitors, and to have plenty of people to do your work, but
it is a hundred times jollier for just us two to be here by ourselves.
Don't you think so, Ralph?" And, without waiting for her brother's
answer, she went on. "You see, we can do whatever we please. We can be
as free as anything--as free as cats. Here, puss, puss," she called to
the gray barn cat in the yard below. "No, she will not even look at me.
Cats are the freest creatures in the world; they will not come to you if
they do not want to. If you call your dog, he feels that he has to come
to you. Ralph, do you know I think it is the most absurd thing in the
world that in a place like this we should have no dog."

"I have been waiting for somebody to give me one," said Ralph, taking up
a pitchfork and preparing to throw some hay into the stable below.

"That will be the nicest way of getting one," said Miriam, as she came
and stood by him, and watched him thrust the hay into the yawning hole.
"We do not want a dog that people are willing to sell. We want one that
is the friend of the family, and which the owners are obliged to part
with because they are going to Europe, or something of that sort. Such a
dog we should prize. Don't you think so, Ralph?"

"Yes," said he, and went on taking up forkloads of hay and thrusting them
into the hole. He was wondering if this were a good time to tell Miriam
that that very morning Dora Bannister had been talking about there being
no dog at Cobhurst, and had asked him if he would like to have one; for
if he would, she had a very handsome black setter, which had been given
to her when it was a little puppy, and of which she was very fond, but
which had now grown too big and lively to be cooped up in the yard of
their house. He had said that he would be charmed to have the dog, and
had intended to tell Miriam about it, but now a most excellent
opportunity had come to do so, he hesitated. Miriam's soul did not seem
to incline toward their late visitor, and perhaps she might not care for
a gift from her. It might be better to wait awhile. Then there came a
happy thought to Ralph; here was a good reason for going to see Dora. It
would be no more than polite to take an interest in the animal which had
been offered him, and even if he did not immediately bring it to
Cobhurst, he could go and look at it. Miriam now returned to the house,
leaving her brother pondering over the question whether or not the next
morning would be too soon to go and look at the dog.

The sun had set, and Ralph, having finished his day's work, and having
helped his sister as much as she and Mike would let him, sat on the
piazza, gazing between the tall pillars upon the evening landscape, and
still trying to decide whether or not it would be out of the way to go
the next morning to Dora Bannister. The evening light grew less and less,
and Ralph's healthy instincts drew his mind from thoughts of Dora to
thoughts of supper. It certainly was very late for the evening meal, but
he would not worry Miriam with any signs of impatience. That would be
unkind indeed, when she was slaving away in the kitchen, while he sat
here enjoying the evening coolness.

In a few minutes he heard his sister's step in the hall, and then a sob.
He had scarcely time to turn, when Miriam ran out, and threw herself down
on the wide seat beside him. Her face, as he could see it in the dim
light, was one of despair, and as sob after sob broke from her, tears ran
down her cheeks. Tenderly he put his arm around her and urged her to tell
him what had happened.

"Oh, Ralph," she sobbed, "it is very hard, but I know it is true. I have
been just filled with vanity and pride, and after all I am nothing like
as good as she is, nor as good as anybody, and the best I can do is to go
back to school."

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Ralph. "You poor little thing, how came
you to be so troubled?"

Miriam gave a long sigh and dropped her head on her brother's shoulder.

"Oh, Ralph," she said, "they are six inches high."

"What are?" cried Ralph, in great amazement.

"The tarts," she said; "the raspberry tarts I was making for you, because
you like them, and because Dora Bannister was going to make them for you,
and I determined that I could do it just as well as she could, and that I
would do it and that you would not have to miss her for anything. But it
is of no use; I cannot do things as well as she can, and those tarts are
not like tarts at all; they are like chimneys."

"I expect they are very good indeed. Now do not drop another tear, and
let us go in and eat them."

"No," said Miriam, "they are not good. I know what is the matter with
them. I have found out that I have no more idea of making pie crust than
I have about the nebulous part of astronomy, and that I never could
comprehend. I wanted to make the lightest, puffiest pastry that was
possible, and I used some self-raising flour, the kind that has the yeast
ground up with it, and when I put those tarts in the oven to bake, they
just rose up, and rose up, until I thought they would reach up the
chimney. They are perfectly horrid."

Ralph sprang to his feet, and lifted his sister from her seat. "Come
along, little one," he cried, "and I shall judge for myself what sort of
a pastry-cook you are."

"The pigs shall judge that," said Miriam, who had now dried her eyes,
"but fortunately there are other things to eat."

The tarts, indeed, were wonderful things to look at, resembling, as
Miriam had said, a plateful of little chimneys, with a sort of swallow's
nest of jam at the top, but Ralph did not laugh at them.

"Wait until their turn comes," said Ralph, "and I will give my opinion
about them."

When he had finished the substantial part of the meal, he drew the plate
of tarts toward him.

"I will show you how to eat the Cobhurst tart. You cut it down from top
to bottom: then you lay the two sections on their rounded sides: then you
get a lot more of jam, which I see you have on the side table, and you
spread the cut surfaces with it: then you put it together as it was
before, and slice it along its shorter diameter. Good?" said he; "they
are delicious."

Miriam took a piece. "It is good enough," she said, "but it is not a
tart. If Dora Bannister had made them, they would have been real tarts."

"It is very well I said nothing about the dog," thought Ralph; and then
he said aloud, "It is not Dora Bannister that we have to consider; it is
Molly Tooney. She is to save you from the tears and perplexities of flour
and yeast, and to make you the happy little lady of the house that you
were before the wicked Phoebe went away. But one thing I insist upon: I
want the rest of those tarts for my breakfast."

Miriam looked at her brother with a smile that showed her storm was over.

"You are eating those things, dear Ralph," she said, "because I made
them, and that is the only good thing about them."




CHAPTER XXI

THE DRANES AND THEIR QUARTERS


In a small room at the back of Dr. Tolbridge's house there sat a young
woman by the window, writing. This was Cicely Drane; and although it was
not yet ten days since Miss Panney broached her plan of the employment of
Miss Drane as the doctor's secretary, or rather copyist, here she was,
hard at work, and she had been for two days.

The window opened upon the garden, and in the beds were a great many
bright and interesting flowers, but paying no heed to these, Cicely gave
her whole attention to her task, which, indeed, was not an easy one. With
knitted brows she bent over the manuscript of the "Diagnosis of
Sympathy," and having deciphered a line or two, she wrote the words in a
fair hand on a broad sheet before her. Then she returned to the study of
the doctor's caligraphy, and copied a little more of it, but the
proportion of the time she gave to the deciphering of the original
manuscript to that occupied in writing the words in her own hand was
about as ten is to one. An hour had elapsed since she had begun to write
on the page, which she had not yet filled.

Miss Cicely Drane was a small person, nearing her twenty-second year. She
had handsome gray eyes, tastefully arranged brown hair, and a vivacious
and pleasing face. Her hands were small, her feet were small, and she did
not look as if she weighed a hundred pounds, although, in fact, her
weight was considerably more than that. Her dress was a simple one, on
which a great deal of thought had been employed to make it becoming.

For a longer time than usual she now bent over the doctor's manuscript,
endeavoring to resolve a portion of it into comprehensible words. Then
she held up the page to the light, replaced it on the table, stood up and
looked at it, and finally sat down again, her elbows on the paper, and
her tapering fingers in the little brown curls at the sides of her head.
Presently she raised her head, with a sigh. "It is of no use," she said.
"I must go and ask him what this means; that is, if he is at home."

With the page in her hand, she went to the office door, and knocked.

"Come in," said Dr. Tolbridge.

Miss Drane entered; the doctor was alone, but he had his hat in his hand
and was just going out.

"I am glad I caught you," said she, "for there is a part of this page in
which I can see no meaning."

"What is it?" said the doctor. "Read it."

Slowly and distinctly she read:--

"'The cropsticks of flamingo bicrastus quack.'"

The doctor frowned, laid his hat on the table, and seating himself took
the paper from Cicely Drane.

"This is strange," said he. "It does seem to be 'cropsticks of flamingo,'
but what can that mean?"

"That is what I came to ask you," said she. "I have been puzzling over it
a good while, and I supposed, of course, you would know what it is."

"But I do not," said the doctor. "It is often very hard for me to read my
own writing, and this was written two years ago. You can leave this sheet
with me, and this evening I will look over it and try to make something
out of it."

Cicely Drane was methodical in her ways; she could not properly go on
with the rest of her work without this page, and so she told the doctor.

"Oh, never mind any more work for today," said he. "It is after four
o'clock now, and you ought to go out and get a little of this pleasant
sunshine. By the way, how do you like this new business?"

"I should like it very well," said Cicely, as she stood by the table, "if
I could get on faster with it, but I work so very, very slowly. I made a
calculation this morning, that if I work at the same rate that I have
been working since I came here, it will take me thirteen years and eleven
months to copy your manuscript."

The doctor laughed. "If a child should walk to school," he said, "at the
same rate of speed that he takes his first toddling step on the nursery
floor, it might take him about thirteen years to get there. That is, if
his school were at the average distance. You will get on fast enough when
you become acquainted with my writing."

She was on the point of saying that surely he had had time to get
acquainted with it, and yet he could not read it; but she considered that
she did not yet know the doctor well enough for that.

The doctor rose and took up his hat; then he suddenly turned toward Miss
Drane and said, "La Fleur, our cook, came to speak to me this morning
about your mother. She says she thinks that you are not well lodged; that
the street is in the hottest part of the town, and that Mrs. Drane's
health will suffer if you stay there. Does your mother object to your
present quarters?"

Cicely, who had been half way to the door, now came back and stood by
the table.

"Mother never objects to anything," she said. "She thinks our rooms are
very neat and comfortable, and that Mrs. Brinkly is a kind landlady,
but she has complained a great deal of the heat. You know our house was
very airy."

"I am sorry," said the doctor, "that Mrs. Brinkly's house is not likely
to prove pleasant. It is in a closely built portion of the town, but it
seemed the only place where we could find suitable accommodations for
your mother and you."

"Oh, it is a nice place," exclaimed Cicely, "and I am sure we shall like
it, except in hot weather, such as we are having now. I have no doubt we
shall get used to it after a little while."

"La Fleur does not think so," said the doctor. "She is very much
dissatisfied with the Brinkly establishment. I think I saw signs of
mental disturbance in our luncheon to-day."

Cicely laughed. She was a girl who was pleasant to look at when she
laughed, for her features accommodated themselves so naturally to
mirthful expression.

"It is almost funny," she said, "to see how fond La Fleur is of mother.
She lived with us less than a year, and yet one might suppose she had
always been a servant of the family. I think one reason for her feeling
is that mother never does anything. You know she has never been used to
do anything, and of late years she has not been well enough. La Fleur
likes all that; she thinks it is a mark of high degree. She told me once
that my mother was a lady who was born to be served, and who ought not to
be allowed to serve herself."

"She does not seem to object to your working," remarked the doctor.

"I am sure she does not like that, but then she considers it a thing that
cannot be helped. You know," continued Cicely, with a smile, "she is not
so particular about me, for I have some trade blood. Father's father was
a merchant."

"So you are only a grade aristocrat," said the doctor; "but I must go. I
will talk to Mrs. Tolbridge about this affair of lodgings."

That evening Mrs. Tolbridge and the doctor held a conference in regard to
the quarters of the Dranes.

"I think La Fleur concerns herself entirely too much in the matter," said
the lady. "She first came to me, and then she went to you. You have done
a good deal for Mrs. Drane in giving her daughter employment, and we
cannot be expected to attend to her every need. I do not consider Mrs.
Brinkly's house a very pleasant one in hot weather, and I would be glad
to do anything I could to establish them more pleasantly, but I know of
nothing to do, at least at present; and then you say they have not
complained. From what I have seen of Mrs. Drane, I think she is a very
sensible woman, and under the circumstances probably expects some
discomforts."

"But that is not all that is to be considered," said her husband. "La
Fleur's dissatisfaction, which is very evident, must be taken into the
question. She has a scheming mind. Before she left this morning she asked
me if I thought a little house could be gotten outside the town, for a
moderate rent. I believe she would not hesitate to take such a house, and
board and lodge the Dranes herself."

"Doctor!" exclaimed Mrs. Tolbridge, "whatever happens, I hope we are not
going to be the slaves of a cook."

The doctor laughed.

"Whatever happens," he said, "we are always that. All we can do is to try
and be the slaves of a good one."

"I am not altogether sure that that is the right way to look at it,"
said Mrs. Tolbridge; and then she went on with her sewing, not caring to
expatiate on the subject. Her husband appreciated only the advantages of
La Fleur, but she knew something of her disadvantages. The work on which
she was engaged at that moment would have been done by the maid, had not
that young woman's services been so frequently required of late by the
autocrat of the kitchen.

The doctor sat silent for a few minutes. He had a kindly feeling for Mrs.
Drane, and was willing to do all he could for her, but his thoughts were
now principally occupied with plans for the continuance of good living in
his own home.

"I suppose it would not be practicable," he said presently, "to invite
them to stay with us during the heated term."

Mrs. Tolbridge dropped her work into her lap.

"That is not to be thought of for a moment," she said. "We have no
room for them, unless we give up having any more friends this summer;
and besides that, you would see La Fleur, with the other servants at
her heels, devoting herself to the gratification of every want and
notion of Mrs. Drane, and thinking no more of me than if I were a
chair in a corner."

"We shall not have that," said the doctor, rising, and placing his hand
on his wife's head. "You may be sure we shall not have that. And now I
will go and get a bit of my handwriting, and see if you can help me
decipher it."

He left the room, but in an instant returned.

"A happy thought has just struck me!" he exclaimed. "I wonder if those
young Haverley people would take Mrs. Drane into their house for the rest
of the summer? It would be an excellent thing for them, for their
household needs the presence of an elderly person, and I am sure that no
one could be quieter, or more pleasant, and less troublesome, than Mrs.
Drane would be. What do you think of that idea?"

Mrs. Tolbridge looked up approvingly.

"It is not a bad one," she said; "but what would the daughter do? She
could not come into town every day to do your work. It is too long a walk
for her, and she could not afford a conveyance."

"No," said the doctor, "of course she could not go back and forwards
every day, but it would not be necessary. She could take the work out
there and do it as well as here, and she could come in now and then, when
a chance offered, and ask me about the hard words, for which she could
leave blanks. Or, if I happen to be in the neighborhood, I could stop in
there and see how she was getting on. I would much rather arrange the
business in that way, than have her pop into my office at any moment to
ask me about my illegible words."

"I should think the work could be done just as well out of the house as
in it," said the doctor's wife, who would be willing to have again the
use of the little room that she had cheerfully given up to the copyist of
her husband's book, which she, quite as earnestly as Miss Panney, desired
to be given to the world.

"The first thing to do," said she, "is to make them acquainted. At first
the Haverleys would not be likely to favor the plan. They no doubt
consider themselves sufficient company for each other, and although a
slight addition to their income would probably be of advantage, I think
they are too young and unpractical to care much about that."

"How would it do to have the Dranes and the Haverleys here, and give them
a first-class La Fleur dinner?" asked the doctor.

"I do not like that," said his wife. "The intention would be too obvious.
The thing should be done more naturally."

"Well," said the doctor, "I wish we had Miss Panney here. She has a great
capacity for rearranging and simplifying the circumstances of a
complicated case."

Mrs. Tolbridge made no answer, but very intently examined her sewing.

"But if we can think of no deeply ingenious plan," continued the doctor,
"we will go about it in a straightforward way. I will see Ralph Haverley,
and if I can win him over to the idea I will let him talk to his sister.
He can do it better than we can. If they utterly reject the whole scheme,
we will wait a week or so, and propose it again, just as if we had never
done it before. I have found this plan work very well with persons who,
on account of youth, or some other reason, are given to resentment of
suggestions and to quick decisions. When a rejected proposition is laid
before them a second time, the disposition to resent has lost its force,
and they are as likely to accept it as not."

"You are right," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "for I have tried that plan
with you."

The doctor looked at her and laughed.

"It is astonishing," he exclaimed, "what coincidences we meet with in
this world," and with that he left the room.

As soon as her husband had gone, Mrs. Tolbridge leaned back in her chair
and laughed quietly.

"To think of asking Miss Panney to aid in a plan like that!" she said to
herself. "Why, when the old lady hears of it she will blaze like fury. To
send that pretty Cicely to live in the house for which she herself has
selected a mistress, will seem to her like high treason. But the
arrangement suits me perfectly, and I can only hope that Miss Panney may
not hear of it until everything is settled."

The more Dr. Tolbridge thought of the plan to establish Mrs. and Miss
Drane, for a time, at Cobhurst, the better he liked it. Not only did he
think the arrangement would be a desirable one on the Drane side, but
also on the Haverley side. From the first, he had taken a lively interest
in Miriam, and he considered that her life of responsibility and
independence in that lonely household was as likely to warp her mind in
some directions as it was to expand it in others. Suitable companionship
would be a great advantage to her in this regard, and he fancied that
Cicely Drane would be as congenial and helpful a chum, and Mrs. Drane as
unobjectionable a matronly adviser, as could be found. If the plan suited
all concerned, it might perhaps be continued beyond the summer. He would
see Ralph as soon as possible.




CHAPTER XXII

A TRESPASS


Having received permission to stop work at four o'clock on a beautiful
summer afternoon, Cicely Drane put away her papers and walked rapidly
home. She found her mother on Mrs. Brinkly's front piazza, fanning
herself vigorously and watching some children, who, on the other side of
the narrow street, were feeding a tethered goat with clippings from a
newspaper.

After a few words to explain her early return, Cicely went up to her own
room, and took from a drawer a little pocketbook, and opening it,
examined the money contained therein. Apparently satisfied with the
result, she went downstairs, wallet in hand.

"Mother," said she, "you must find it dreadfully hot and stupid here, and
as this is a bit of a holiday, I intend we shall take a drive."

Mrs. Drane was about to offer some sort of economic objection, but before
she could do so, Cicely was out of the little front yard, and hurrying
toward the station, where there were always vehicles to be hired.

She engaged the man who had the best-looking horse, and in a little open
phaeton, a good deal the worse for wear, she returned to her mother.

Andy Griffing, the driver, was a grizzled little man with twinkling eyes
and a cheery air that seemed to indicate that an afternoon drive was as
much a novelty and pleasure to him as it could possibly be to any two
ladies; which was odd, considering that for the last forty years Andy had
been almost constantly engaged in taking morning, afternoon, evening, and
night drives.

The only direction given him by Cicely was to take them along the
prettiest country roads that he knew of, and this suited him well, for he
not only considered himself a good judge of scenery, but he knew which
roads were easiest for his horse.

As they travelled leisurely along, the ladies enjoying the air, the
fields, the sweet summer smells, the stretches of woods, the blue and
white sky, and everything that goes to make a perfect summer afternoon.
Andy endeavored to add to their pleasure by giving them information
regarding the inhabitants of the various dwellings they passed.

"That whitish house back there among the trees," said he, "with the green
blinds, is called the Witton place. The Wittons themselves are nuthin'
out o' the common; but there's an old lady lives there with 'em, who if
you ever meet, you'll know agin, if you see her agin. Her name's
Panney,--Miss Panney,--and she's a one-er. What she don't know about me,
I don't know, and what she won't know about you, three days after she
gits acquainted with you, you don't know. That's the kind of a person
Miss Panney is. There's a lot of very nice people, some rich and some
poor, and some queer and some not quite so queer, that lives in and
around Thorbury, and if you like it at Mrs. Brinkly's and conclude to
stay there any length of time, I don't doubt you'll git acquainted with a
good many of 'em; but take my word for it, you'll never meet anybody who
can go ahead of Miss Panney in the way of turnin' up unexpected. I once
had a sick hoss, who couldn't do much more than stand up, but I had to
drive him one day, 'cause my other one was hired out. 'Now' says I, as I
drew out the stable, 'if I can get around town this mornin' without
meetin' Miss Panney, I think old Bob can do my work, and to-morrow I'll
turn him out to grass.' And as I went around the first corner, there was
Miss Panney a drivin' her roan mare. She pulled up when she seed me, and
she calls out, 'Andy, what's the matter with that hoss?' I told her he
was a little under the weather, but I had to use him that day, 'cause my
other hoss was out. Then she got straight out of that phaeton she drives
in, and come up to my hoss, and says she, 'Andy, you ought to be ashamed
of yourself to make a hoss work when he is in a condition like that. Take
him right back to your stable, or I'll have you up before a justice.'
'Now look here, Miss Panney,' says I, 'which is the best, for a hoss to
jog a little round town when he ain't feeling quite well, or for a man to
sit idle on his front doorstep and see his family starve?' 'Now, Andy,'
says she, 'is that the case with you?' and havin' brought up the pint
myself, I was obliged to say that it was. 'Very good, then,' said she,
and she took her roan mare by the head and led it up to the curbstone.
'Now then,' said she, 'you can take your hoss out of the cab and put this
hoss in, and you can drive her till your hoss gets well, and durin' that
time I'll walk.'

"Well, of course I didn't do that, and I took my hoss back to the stable,
and my family didn't starve nuther; but I just tell you this to show you
what sort of a woman Miss Panney is."

"I should think she was a very estimable person," said Mrs. Drane.

"Oh, there's nothin' the matter with her estimation," said Andy. "That's
level enough. I only told you that to show you how you can always expect
her to turn up unexpected."

"Mrs. Brinkly spoke of Miss Panney," said Cicely; "she said that she was
the first one to come and see her about rooms for us."

"That was certainly very kind," said Mrs. Drane, "considering that she
does not know us at all, except through Dr. Tolbridge. I remember his
speaking of her."

"That place over there," said Andy, "you can jest see the tops of the
chimneys, that's called Cobhurst; that's where old Matthias Butterwood
used to live. It was an awful big house for one man, but he was queer.
There's nobody livin' there now but two young people, sort of temporary,
I guess, though the place belongs to 'em. I don't think they are any too
well off. They don't give us hack-drivers much custom, never havin' any
friends comin' or goin', or trunks or anything. He's got no other
business, they say, and don't know no more about farmin' than a potato
knows about preachin'. There's nothin' on the place that amounts to
anything except the barn. There's a wonderful barn there, that old
Butterwood spent nobody knows how much money on, and he a bachelor. You
can't see the barn from here, but I'll drive you where you can get a good
look at it."

In a few minutes, he made a turn, and whipped up his horse to a better
speed, and before Mrs. Drane and her daughter could comprehend the state
of affairs, they were rolling over a not very well kept private road, and
approaching the front of a house.

"Where are you going, driver?" exclaimed Mrs. Drane, leaning forward in
astonishment.

Andy turned his beaming countenance upon her, and flourished his whip.

"Oh, I'm just goin' to drive round the side of the house," he said; "at
the back there's a little knoll where we can stop, and you can see the
whole of the barn with the three ways of gittin' into it, one for each
story." At that moment they rolled past the front piazza on which were
Miriam and Ralph, gazing at them in surprise. The latter had risen when
he had heard the approaching carriage, supposing they were to have
visitors. But as the vehicle passed the door he looked at his sister in
amazement.

"It can't be," said he, "that those people have come to visit Mike?"

"Or Molly Tooney?" said Miriam.

As for Mrs. Drane and Cicely, they were shocked. They had never been
in the habit of driving into private grounds for the sake of seeing
what might be there to see, and Mrs. Drane sharply ordered the
driver to stop.

"What do you mean," said she, "by bringing us in here?"

"Oh, that's nuthin'," said Andy, with a genial grin; "they won't mind
your comin' in to look at the barn. I've druv lots of people in here to
look at that barn, though, to be sure, not since these young people has
been livin' here, but they won't mind it an eighth of an inch."

"I shall get out and apologize," said Mrs. Drane, "for this shameful
intrusion, and then you must drive us out of the grounds immediately. We
do not wish to stop to look at anything," and with this she stepped from
the little phaeton and walked back to the piazza.

Stopping at the bottom of the steps, she saluted the brother and sister,
whose faces showed that they were in need of some sort of explanation of
her arrival at their domestic threshold.

In a few words she explained how the carriage had happened to enter the
grounds, and hoped that they would consider that the impropriety was due
entirely to the driver, and not to any desire on their part to intrude
themselves on private property for the sake of sight-seeing. Ralph and
Miriam were both pleased with the words and manner of this exceedingly
pleasant-looking lady.

"I beg that you will not consider at all that you have intruded," said
Ralph. "If there is anything on our place that you would care to look at,
I hope that you will do so."

"It was only the barn," said Mrs. Drane, with a smile. "The man told us
it was a peculiar building, but I supposed we could see it without
entering your place. We will trespass no longer."

Ralph went down the steps, and Miriam followed.

"Oh, you are perfectly welcome to look at the barn as much as you wish
to," he said. "In fact, we are rather proud to find that this is anything
of a show place. If the other lady will alight, I will be pleased to have
you walk into the barn. The door of the upper floor is open, and there is
a very fine view from the back."

Mrs. Drane smiled.

"You are very good indeed," she said, "to treat intrusive strangers with
such kindness, but I shall be glad to have you know that we are not mere
tourists. We are, at present, residents of Thorbury. I am Mrs. Drane, and
my daughter is engaged in assisting Dr. Tolbridge in some literary work."

"If you are friends of Dr. Tolbridge," said Ralph, "you are more than
welcome to see whatever there is to see on this place. The doctor is one
of our best friends. If you like, I will show you the barn, and perhaps
my sister will come with us."

Miriam, who for a week or more had been beset by the very unusual desire
that she would like to see somebody and speak to somebody who did not
live at Cobhurst, willingly agreed to assist in escorting the strangers,
and Cicely having joined the group, they all walked toward the barn.

There were no self-introductions, Ralph merely acting as cicerone, and
Miriam bringing up the rear in the character of occasional commentator.
Mrs. Drane had accepted the young gentleman's invitation because she felt
that the most polite thing to do under the circumstances was to gratify
his courteous desire to put them at their ease, and, being a lover of
fine scenery, she was well rewarded by the view from the great window.

The pride of possession began to glow a little within Ralph as he pointed
out the features of this castle-like barn. Mrs. Drane agreed to his
proposition to descend to the second floor. But as these two were going
down the broad stairway, Cicely drew back, and suddenly turning,
addressed Miriam.

"I have been wanting to ask a great many questions," she said, "but I
have felt ashamed to do it. I have nearly always lived in the country,
but I know hardly anything about barns and cows and stables and hay and
all that. Do the hens lay their eggs up there in your hay?"

Miriam smiled gravely.

"It is very hard to find out," she said, "where they do lay their eggs.
Some days we do not get any at all, though I suppose they lay them, just
the same. There is a henhouse, but they never go in there."

Cicely moved toward the stairway, and then she stopped; she cast her
eyes toward the mass of hay in the mow above, and then she gave a little
sigh. Miriam looked at her and understood her perfectly, moreover she
pitied her.

"How is it," said she as they went down the stairs, "that you lived in
the country, and do not know about country things?"

"We lived in suburbs," she said. "I think suburbs are horrible; they are
neither one thing nor the other. We had a lawn and shade trees, and a
croquet ground, and a tennis court, but we bought our milk and eggs and
most of our vegetables. There isn't any real country in all that, you
know. I was never in a haymow in my life. All I know about that sort of
thing is from books."

When, with many thanks for the courtesies offered them, Mrs. Drane and
her daughter had driven away, Miriam sat by herself on the piazza and
thought. She had a good deal of time, now, to think, for Molly Tooney was
a far more efficient servant than Phoebe had been, and although her
brother gave her as much of his time as he could, she was of necessity
left a good deal to herself.

She began by thinking what an exceedingly gentlemanly man her brother
was; in his ordinary working clothes he had been as much at his ease with
those ladies as though he had been dressed in a city costume, which,
however, would not have been nearly so becoming to him as his loose
flannel shirt and broad straw hat. She then began to regret that her mind
worked so slowly. If it had been quicker to act, she would have asked
that young lady to come some day and go up in the haymow with her. It
would be a positive charity to give a girl with longings, such as she saw
that one had, a chance of knowing what real country life was. It would
be pleasant to show things to a girl who really wanted to know about
them. From this she began to think of Dora Bannister. Dora was a nice
girl, but Miriam could not think of her as one to whom she could show or
tell very much; Dora liked to do the showing and telling herself.

"I truly believe," said Miriam to herself, and a slight flush came on her
face, "that if she could have done it, she would have liked to stay here
a week, and wear the teaberry gown all the time and direct
everything,--although, of course, I would never have allowed that." With
a little contraction of the brows, she went into the hall, where she
heard her brother's step.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE HAVERLEY FINANCES AND MRS. ROBINSON


"It bothers the head off of me," said Molly Tooney to Mike, as she sat
eating her supper in the Cobhurst kitchen, "to try to foind out what thim
two upstairs is loike, anyway, 'specially her. I've been here nigh onto
two weeks, now, and I don't know her no betther than when I fust come.
For the life of me I can't make out whether she's a gal woman or a woman
gal. Sometimes she's one and sometimes t'other. And then there's he. Why
didn't he marry and settle before he took a house to himself? And in the
two Sundays I've been here, nather of thim's been to church. If they
knowed what was becomin' to thim, they'd behave like Christians, if they
are heretics."

Mike sat at a little table in the corner of the kitchen with his back to
Molly, eating his supper. He had enough of the Southern negro in him to
make him dislike to eat with white people or to turn his face toward
anybody while partaking of his meals. But he also had enough of a son of
Erin in him to make him willing to talk whenever he had a chance. Turning
his head a little, he asked, "Now look a here, Molly; if a man's a
heretic, how can he be a Christian?"

"There's two kinds of heretics," said Molly, filling her great tea-cup
for the fourth time, and holding the teapot so that the last drop of the
strong decoction should trickle into the cup; "Christian heretics and
haythen heretics. You're one of the last koind yoursilf, Mike, for you
never go nigh a church, except to whitewash the walls of it. And you'll
never git no benefit to your own sowl, from Phoebe's boardin' the
minister, nather. Take my word for that, Mike."

Mike allowed himself a sort of froggy laugh. "There's nobody gets no good
out of that, but him," said he; "but you've got it crooked about their
not goin' to church. They did go reg'lar at fust, but the gig's at the
wheelwright's gettin' new shaf's."

"Gig, indeed!" ejaculated Molly. "No kirridge, but an auld gig! There's
not much quality about thim two. I wouldn't be here working for the likes
o' thim, if it was not for me wish to oblige Miss Panney, poor old woman
as she's gittin' to be."

Mike shrewdly believed that it was due to Miss Panney's knowledge of
some of Molly's misdeeds, and not to any desire to please the old lady,
that the commands of the latter were law to the Irishwoman, but he would
not say so.

"Kerridge or no kerridge," said he, "they're good 'nough quality for me,
and I reckon I knows what quality is. They hain't got much money, that's
sure, but there's lots of quality that ain't got money; and he's got
sense, and that's better than money. When he fust come here, I jes' goes
to him, and ses I, 'How's you goin' to run this farm, sir,--ramshackle or
reg'lar?' He looked at me kinder bothered, and then I 'splained. 'Well,'
said he, 'reg'lar will cost more money than I've got, and I reckon we'll
have to run it ramshackle.' That's what we did, and we're gittin' along
fust rate. He works and I work, and what we ain't got no time to do, we
let stand jes' thar till we git time to 'tend to it. That's ramshackle.
We don't spend no time on fancy fixin's, and not much money on nuthin'."