THE GIRL AT COBHURST

                          BY FRANK R. STOCKTON

                                  1898




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

        I. DR. TOLBRIDGE
       II. MISS PANNEY
      III. BROTHER AND SISTER
       IV. THE HOME
        V. PANNEYOPATHY
       VI. MRS. TOLBRIDGE'S CALLERS
      VII. DORA BANNISTER TAKES TIME AND A MARE BY THE FORELOCK
     VIII. MRS. TOLBRIDGE'S REPORT IS NOT ACCEPTED
       IX. JOHN WESLEY AND LORENZO DOW AT LUNCHEON
        X. A SILK GOWN AND A BOTTLE
       XI. TWO GIRLS AND A CALF
      XII. TO EAT WITH THE FAMILY
     XIII. DORA'S NEW MIND
      XIV. GOOD-NIGHT
       XV. MISS PANNEY IS AROUSED TO HELP AND HINDER
      XVI. "KEEP HER TO HELP YOU"
     XVII. JUDITH PACEWALK'S TEABERRY GOWN
    XVIII. BLARNEY FLUFF
      XIX. MISS PANNEY IS "TOOK SUDDEN"
       XX. THE TEABERRY GOWN IS TOO LARGE
      XXI. THE DRANES AND THEIR QUARTERS
     XXII. A TRESPASS
    XXIII. THE HAVERLEY FINANCES AND MRS. ROBINSON
     XXIV. THE DOCTOR'S MISSION
      XXV. BOMBSHELLS AND BROMIDE
     XXVI. DORA COMES AND SEES
    XXVII. "IT COULDN'T BE BETTER THAN THAT"
   XXVIII. THE GAME IS CALLED
     XXIX. HYPOTHESIS AND INNUENDO
      XXX. A CONFIDENTIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
     XXXI. THE TEABERRY GOWN IS DONNED
    XXXII. MISS PANNEY FEELS SHE MUST CHANGE HER PLANS
   XXXIII. LA FLEUR LOOKS FUTUREWARD
    XXXIV. A PLAN WHICH SEEMS TO SUIT EVERYBODY
     XXXV. MISS PANNEY HAS TEETH ENOUGH LEFT TO BITE WITH
    XXXVI. A CRY FROM THE SEA
   XXXVII. LA FLEUR ASSUMES RESPONSIBILITIES
  XXXVIII. CICELY READS BY MOONLIGHT
    XXXIX. UNDISTURBED LETTUCE
       XL. ANGRY WAVES
      XLI. PANNEYOPATHY AND THE ASH-HOLE
     XLII. AN INTERVIEWER
    XLIII. THE SIREN AND THE IRON
     XLIV. LA FLEUR'S SOUL REVELS, AND MISS PANEY PREPARES TO MAKE A FIRE




THE GIRL AT COBHURST




CHAPTER I

DR. TOLBRIDGE


It was about the middle of a March afternoon when Dr. Tolbridge, giving
his horse and buggy into the charge of his stable boy, entered the warm
hall of his house. His wife was delighted to see him; he had not been at
home since noon of the preceding day.

"Yes," said he, as he took off his gloves and overcoat, "the Pardell boy
is better, but I found him in a desperate condition."

"I knew that," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "when you told me in your note that
you would be obliged to stay with him all night."

The doctor now walked into his study, changed his overcoat for a
well-worn smoking-jacket, and seated himself in an easy chair before the
fire. His wife sat by him.

"Thank you," he said, in answer to her inquiries, "but I do not want
anything to eat. After I had gone my round this morning I went back to
the Pardells, and had my dinner there. The boy is doing very well. No, I
was not up all night. I had some hours' sleep on the big sofa."

"Which doesn't count for much," said his wife.

"It counts for some hours," he replied, "and Mrs. Pardell did not
sleep at all."

Dr. Tolbridge, a man of moderate height, and compactly built, with some
touches of gray in his full, short beard, and all the light of youth in
his blue eyes, had been for years the leading physician in and about
Thorbury. He lived on the outskirts of the little town, but the lines of
his practice extended in every direction into the surrounding country.

The doctor's wife was younger than he was; she had a high opinion of him,
and had learned to diagnose him, mentally, morally, and physically, with
considerable correctness. It may be asserted, in fact, that the doctor
seldom made a diagnosis of a patient as exact as those she made of him.
But then it must be remembered that she had only one person to exert her
skill upon, while he had many.

The Tolbridge house was one of the best in the town, but the family was
small. There was but one child, a boy of fourteen, who was now away at
school. The doctor had readjusted the logs upon the andirons, and was
just putting the tongs in their place when a maidservant came in.

"There's a boy here, sir," she said, "from Miss Panney. She's sent for
you in a hurry."

In the same instant the doctor and his wife turned in their chairs and
fixed their eyes upon the servant, but there was nothing remarkable
about her; she had delivered her message and stood waiting. The doctor's
fists were clenched and there was a glitter in his eye. He seemed on the
point of saying something in a loud voice, but he changed his mind, and
quietly said, "Tell the boy to come here," and turned back to the fire.
Then, when the girl had gone, he struck his fist upon his knee and
ejaculated, "Confound Miss Panney!"

"Harry!" exclaimed his wife, "you should not speak of your patients in
that way, but I agree with you perfectly;" and then, addressing the boy,
who had just entered, and who stood by the door, "Do you mean to say that
there is anything serious the matter with Miss Panney?" she said
severely. "Does she really want to see the doctor immediately?"

"That's what they told me, ma'am," said the boy, looking about him at the
books and the furniture. "They told me that she was took bad, and that I
must come here first to tell the doctor to come right away, and if he
wasn't at home to leave that message."

"How did you come?" asked Mrs. Tolbridge; "on horseback?"

"No, ma'am; with a wagon."

"You could have come a great deal quicker without the wagon," said she.

"Oh, yes, but then I've got to stop at the store going back."

"That will do," said Mrs. Tolbridge; "you can go now and attend to your
other business."

The doctor was quietly looking into the fire, and as his wife turned to
him he gave a little snort.

"I was just beginning to get up enough energy," he remarked, "to think of
putting on my slippers."

"Well, put them on," said she, in a very decided tone.

"No," replied the doctor, "that will not do; of course I must go to her."

"You mustn't do anything of the kind!" exclaimed Mrs. Tolbridge, her eyes
sparkling. "How many times by night and by day has that woman called you
away on a fool's errand? It is likely as not that there is nothing more
the matter with her than there is with me. She has no right to worry the
life out of you in this way. She ought to have gone to heaven long ago."

"You shouldn't talk of my patients in that way, Kitty," said the doctor;
"and in the opinion of a good many of her neighbors the old lady is not
bound for heaven."

"I don't care where she is going, but one thing is certain: you are not
going to her this afternoon. You are not fit for it."

"You must remember, Kitty," said the doctor, "that Miss Panney is an old
lady, and though she may sound many a false alarm, the true alarm is to
be expected, and I would much prefer to go by daylight than to wait until
after supper. The roads are bad, the air is raw, and she would keep me
nobody knows how late. I want to go to bed early to-night."

"And that is what you are going to do," said Mrs. Tolbridge.

He looked at her inquiringly. "Harry," said she, "you have been up
nearly all night. You have been working the greater part of this day, and
I do not intend to let you drive three miles to be nearly talked to death
by Racilia Panney. No, you needn't shake your head in that way; she is
not to be neglected. I shall go myself and see what is the matter with
her, and if it is really anything serious, I can then let you know. I do
not believe she would have sent for you at all, if she had not known the
wagon was going to town."

"But, my dear," said the doctor, "you cannot--"

"Yes, I can," interrupted his wife. "I want some fresh air and shall
enjoy the drive, and Buckskin has done nothing for two days. I shall
take the cart, Tom can get up behind, and I can go there in less than
half an hour."

"But if there really is anything the matter--" said the doctor.

"It's just as likely as not," interrupted his wife, "that what she wants
is somebody to talk to, and that a minister or a lawyer or a stranger
from foreign parts would do just as well as you. And now put on your
slippers, push the sofa up to the fire, and take your nap, and I'll go
and see how the case really stands."

The doctor smiled. "I have no more to say," said he. "There are angels
who bless us by coming, and there are angels who bless us by going. You
belong to both classes. But don't stay too long."

"In any case I shall be back before dark," she said, and with a kiss on
his forehead she left him.

Dr. Tolbridge looked into the fire and considered.

"Ought I to let her go?" he asked himself. This question, mingled with
various thoughts and recollections of former experiences with Miss
Panney, occupied the doctor's mind until he heard the swift rolling of
the dog-cart wheels as they passed his window. Then he arose, put on his
slippers, drew up the soft cushioned sofa, and lay down for a nap.

In about half an hour he was aroused by the announcement that Miss
Bannister had called to see him.

Long practice in that sort of thing made him wake in an instant, and the
young lady who was ushered into the study had no idea that she had
disturbed the nap of a tired man. She was a very pretty girl, handsomely
dressed; she had large blue eyes, and a very gentle and sweet expression,
tinged, however, by an anxious sadness.

"Who is sick, Miss Dora?" asked the doctor, quickly, as he shook
hands with her.

She did not seem to understand him. "Nobody," she said. "That is, I have
come to see you about myself."

"Oh," said he, "pray take a seat. I imagined from your face," he
continued, with a smile, "that some one of your family was in desperate
need of a doctor."

"No," said she, "it is I. For a long time I have thought of consulting
you, and to-day I felt I must come."

"And what is the matter?" he asked.

"Doctor," said she, a tear forcing itself into each of her beautiful
eyes, "I believe I am losing my mind."

"Indeed," said the doctor; "and how is your general health?"

"Oh, that's all right," answered Miss Dora. "I do not think there is the
least thing the matter with me that way. It is all my mind. It has been
failing me for a good while."

"How?" he asked. "What are the symptoms?"

"Oh, there are ever so many of them," she said; "I can't think of them
all. I have lost all interest in everything in this world. You remember
how much interest I used to take in things?"

"Indeed I do," said he.

"The world is getting to be all a blank to me," she said; "everything
is blank."

"Your meals?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Of course I must eat to live."

"And sleep?"

"Oh, I sleep well enough. Indeed, I wish I could sleep all the time, so
that I could not know how the world--at least its pleasures and
affections--are passing away from me. All this is dreadful, doctor, when
you come to think of it. I have thought and thought and thought about it,
until it has become perfectly plain to me that I am losing my mind."

Dr. Tolbridge looked into the fire.

"Well," said he, presently, "I am glad to hear it."

Miss Dora sprang to her feet.

"Oh, sit down," said he, "and let me explain myself. My advice is, if you
lose your mind, don't mind the loss. It really will do you good. That
sounds hard and cruel, doesn't it? But wait a bit. It often happens that
the minds of young people are like their first teeth--what are called
milk teeth, you know. These minds and these teeth do very well for a
time, but after a while they become unable to perform the services which
will be demanded of them, and they are shed, or at least they ought to
be. Sometimes, of course, they have to be extracted."

"Nonsense, doctor," said the young lady, smiling in spite of herself,
"you cannot extract a mind."

"Well, perhaps not exactly that," he answered, "but we can help it to be
absorbed and to disappear, and so make a way for the strong, vigorous
mind of maturity, which is certain to succeed it. All this has happened
and is happening to you, Miss Dora. You have lost your milk mind, and the
sooner it is gone the better. You will be delighted with the one that
succeeds it. Now then, can you give me an idea about how angry you are?"

"I am not angry at all," she replied, "but I feel humiliated. You think
my mental sufferings are all fanciful."

"Oh, no," said the doctor; "to continue the dental simile, they are the
last aches of your youthful mentality, forced to make way for the
intellect of a woman."

Miss Bannister looked out of the window for a few moments.

"Doctor," she then said, "I do not believe there is any one else who
knows me, who would tell me that I have the mind of a child."

"Oh, no," replied Dr. Tolbridge, "for it is not likely that there is any
one else to whom you have made the fact known."

There was a quick flush on the face of Miss Dora, and a flash in her blue
eyes, and she reached out her hand toward her muff which lay on the table
beside her, but she changed her purpose and drew back her hand. The
doctor looked at her with a smile.

"You were just on the point of jumping up and leaving the room without a
word, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was," said she, "and I have a great mind to do it now, but
first I must--"

"Miss Dora," said the doctor, "I am delighted. Actually you are cutting
your new mind. Before you can realize the fact, you will have it all
full-formed and ready for use. Let me see; this is the ninth of March;
bad roads; bad weather; no walking; no driving; nothing inspiriting;
disagreeable in doors and out. I think the full change will occur within
three weeks. By the end of this month, you will not only have forgotten
that your milk mind has troubled you, but that the world was ever blank,
and that your joys and affections were ever on the point of passing away
from you. You will then be the brave-hearted, bright-spirited woman that
Nature intended you to be, after she had passed you through some of the
preliminary stages."

The flush on the face of Miss Dora gradually passed away as she listened
to this speech.

She rose. "Doctor," said she, "I like that better than what you have been
saying. Anyway, I shall not be angry, and I shall wait three weeks and
see what happens, and if everything is all wrong then, the responsibility
will rest on you."

"Very good," said he, "I agree to the terms. It is a bargain."

Now Miss Dora seemed troubled again. She took up her muff, put it down,
drew her furs about her, then let them fall again, and finally turned
toward the physician, who had also risen.

"Doctor," she said, "I don't want you to put this visit in the family
bill. I wish to--to attend to it myself. How much should I pay you?" and
she took out her little pocketbook.

Dr. Tolbridge put his hands behind him.

"This case is out of my usual line of practice," he said, "and my
ordinary schedule of fees does not apply to it. For advice such as I have
given you I never charge money. I take nothing but cats."

"What!" exclaimed Miss Dora; "what on earth do you mean?"

"I mean cats," he replied, "or rather kittens. I am very fond of kittens,
and at present we have not one in the house. So, if you have a kitten--"

"Dr. Tolbridge," cried Miss Dora, her eyes sparkling, "do you really mean
that? Would you truly like to have an Angora kitten?"

"That is exactly the breed I want," he answered.

"Why, I have five," she said; "they are only four days old, and perfect
beauties. I shall be charmed to give you one, and I will pick out the
very prettiest for you. As soon as it is old enough, I will bring it to
you, already named, and with a ribbon on its neck. What color would you
like the ribbon to be?"

"For Angoras, blue," he said; "I shall be so glad to have a kitten like
that; but remember that you must not bring it to me until its eyes are
opened, and it has--"

"Doctor," interrupted Miss Dora, raising her forefinger, "you were just
on the point of saying, 'and has shed its milk mind.' Now I am going away
before you make me angry again."

When his patient had gone, Dr. Tolbridge put another log on the fire,
shook up the cushions of the sofa, and lay down to continue his nap.




CHAPTER II

MISS PANNEY


The Witton family, distant relatives of Miss Panney, with whom she had
lived for many years, resided on a farm in the hilly country above
Thorbury, and when Mrs. Tolbridge had rattled through the town, she found
the country road very rough and bad--hard and bumpy in some places, and
soft and muddy in others; but Buckskin was in fine spirits and pulled her
bravely on.

When she reached the Witton house she left the horse in charge of the
boy, and opening the hall door, went directly up to Miss Panney's room.
Knocking, she waited some little time for an answer, and then was told,
in a clear, high voice, to come in. The room was large and well lighted.
Against one of the walls stood a high-posted bed with a canopy, and on
one of the pillows of the bed appeared the head of an elderly woman, the
skin darkened and wrinkled by time, the nose aquiline, and the black eyes
very sharp and quick of movement. This head was surrounded by the frills
of a freshly laundered night-cap, and the smooth white coverlid was drawn
up close under its chin.

"Upon my word," exclaimed the person in the bed, "is that you, Mrs.
Tolbridge? I thought it was the doctor."

"I don't wonder at that, Miss Panney," said Mrs. Tolbridge. "At times we
have very much the same sort of knock."

"But where is the doctor?" asked the old lady.

"I hope he is at home and asleep," was the reply. "He has been working
very hard lately, and was up the greater part of last night. He was
coming here when he received your message, but I told him he should not
do it; I would come myself, and if I found it absolutely necessary that
you should see him, I would let him know. And now what is the trouble,
Miss Panney?"

Miss Panney fixed her eyes steadfastly upon her visitor, who had taken a
seat by the bedside.

"Catherine Tolbridge," said she, "do you know what will happen to you, if
you don't look out? You'll lose that man."

"Lose him!" exclaimed the other.

"Yes, just that," replied the old lady; "I have seen it over and over
again. Down they drop, right in the middle of their harness. And the
stouter and sturdier they are, the worse it is for them; they think they
can do anything, and they do it. I'll back a skinny doctor against a
burly one, any day. He knows there are things he can't do. He doesn't
try, and he keeps afloat."

"That is exactly what I am trying to do," said the doctor's wife, "and if
those are your opinions, Miss Panney, don't you think that the doctor's
patients ought to have a regard for his health, and that they ought not
to make him come to them in all sorts of weather, and at all hours of the
day, unless there is something serious the matter with them? Now I don't
believe there is anything serious the matter with you today."

"There is always something serious the matter with a person of my age,"
said Miss Panney, "and as for Dr. Tolbridge's visits to me doing him any
harm, it is all stuff and nonsense. They do him good; they rest him; they
brighten him up. He's never livelier than when he is with me. He doesn't
have to hang over me all the night, giving me this and that, to keep the
breath in my body, when he ought to be taking the rest that he needs more
than any of us."

Mrs. Tolbridge laughed. "No, indeed," said she, "he never has to do
anything of that kind for you. I believe you are the healthiest
patient he has."

"That may be," said the other, "and it is much to his credit, and to
mine, too. I know when I want a doctor. I don't send for him when I am
in the last stages of anything. But we won't talk anything more about
that. I want to know all about your husband. Do you think he is really
out of health?"

"No," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "he is simply overworked, and needs rest. Just
the sort of rest I hope he is getting this afternoon."

"Nonsense," said Miss Panney; "rest is well enough, but you must give him
more than that if you do not want to see him break down. You must give
him good victuals. Rest, without the best of food, amounts to little in
his case."

"Truly, Miss Panney!" exclaimed her visitor, "I think I give my husband
as good living as any one in Thorbury has or can expect."

"Humph!" said the old lady. "He may have all that, and yet be starving
before your eyes. There isn't a man, woman, or child, in or about
Thorbury, who really lives well--excepting, perhaps, myself."

Mrs. Tolbridge smiled. "I think you do manage to live very well,
Miss Panney."

"Yes," said the other, "and I'd like to manage to have my friends live
well, too. By the way, did you ever make rum-flake for the doctor when
he comes in tired and faint?"

"I never heard of it," replied the other.

"I thought as much," said Miss Panney. "Well, you take the whites of two
eggs and beat them up, and while you are beating you sprinkle rum over
the egg, from a pepper caster, which you ought to keep clean to use for
this and nothing else. Then you should sift in sugar according to taste,
and when you have put a dry macaroon, which has been soaking in rum all
this time, in the bottom of a glass saucer, you pile the flake over it,
and it's ready for him, except that sometimes you put in,--let me see!--a
little orange juice, I think, but I've got the recipe there in my
scrap-book, and I can find it in a minute." So saying, the old lady threw
aside the coverlid, and jumped to the floor with the activity of a cat.

Mrs. Tolbridge burst out laughing.

"I declare, Miss Panney!" she exclaimed, "you have your dress on."

"What of that?" said the old lady, opening a drawer. "A warm dress is a
good thing to wear, at least I have always found it so."

"But not with a night-cap," said the other.

"That depends on circumstances," said Miss Panney, turning over the pages
of a large scrap-book.

"And shoes," continued Mrs. Tolbridge, laughing again.

"Shoes," cried Miss Panney, pushing out one foot, and looking at it.
"Well, truly, that was an oversight; but here is the recipe;" and without
the aid of spectacles, she began to read. "It's exactly as I told you,"
she said presently, "except that some people use sponge cake instead of
macaroons. The orange juice depends on individual taste. Shall I write
that out for you, or will you remember it?"

"Oh, I can remember it," said the other; "but tell me, Miss Panney--"

"Well, then," said the old lady, "make it for him, and see how he likes
it. There is one thing, Mrs. Tolbridge, that you should never forget, and
that is that the doctor is not only your husband, but the mainstay of the
community."

"Oh, I know that, and accept the responsibility; but you must tell me why
you are in bed with all your clothes on. I believe that you did not
expect the doctor so soon, and when you heard my knock, you clapped on
your night-cap and jumped into bed."

"Catherine," quietly remarked the old lady, "there is nothing so
discouraging to a doctor as to find a person who has sent for him out of
bed. If the patient is up and about, she mystifies him; he is apt to make
mistakes; he loses interest; he wonders if she couldn't come to him,
instead of his having to go to her; but when he finds the ailing person
in bed, the case is natural and straightforward; he feels at home, and
knows how to go to work. If you believe in a doctor, you ought to make
him believe in you. And if you are in bed, he will believe in you, and if
you are out of it, he is apt not to. More than that, Mrs. Tolbridge,
there is no greater compliment that you can pay to a physician you have
sent for, than to have him find you in bed."

The doctor's wife laughed. She thought, but she did not say so, that
probably this old lady had paid her husband a great many compliments.

"Well, Miss Panney," she said, rising, "what report shall I make?"

The old lady took off her night-cap, and replaced it with her ordinary
headgear of lace and ribbons.

"Have you heard anything," she asked, "of the young man who is coming to
Cobhurst?"

"No," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "nothing at all."

"Well," continued Miss Panney, "I think the doctor knows something about
him through old Butterwood. I have an idea that I know something about
him myself, but I wanted to talk to the doctor about him. Of course this
is a mere secondary matter. My back has been troubling me a good deal
lately, but as the doctor is so pushed, I won't ask him to come here on
purpose to see me. If he's in the neighborhood, I shall be very glad to
have him call. For the present, I shall try some of the old liniments.
Dear knows, I have enough of them, dating back for years and years."

"But it will not do to make any mistakes, Miss Panney. Those old
prescriptions might not suit you now."

"Don't trouble yourself in the least about that," said the old lady,
lifting her hand impressively; "medicine never injures me. Not a drop of
it do I ever take inside of me, prescription or no prescription. But I
don't mind putting things on the outside of me--of course, I mean in
reason, for there are outside applications that would ruin the
constitution of a jack-screw."

There were very few people in the neighborhood of Thorbury who were older
than Miss Panney, and very few of any age who were as alert in both mind
and body. She had been born in this region; had left it in her youth, and
had returned about thirty years ago, when she had taken up her abode with
the Wittons, who at that time were a newly married couple. They were now
middle-aged people, but Miss Panney still lived with them, and seemed to
be much the very same old lady as she was when she arrived. She was a
woman who kept a good deal to herself, having many resources for her
active mind. With many people who were not acquainted with her socially
but knew all about her, she had the reputation of being wicked. The
principal reason for this belief was the well-known fact that she always
took her breakfast in bed. This was considered to be a French habit, and
the French were looked upon as infidels. Moreover, she never went to
church, and when questioned upon this subject, had been known to answer
that she could not listen with patience to a sermon, for she had never
heard one without thinking that she could preach on that subject a great
deal better than the man in the pulpit.

In spite of this fact, however, the rector of the Episcopal church of
Thorbury and the Methodist minister were both great friends of Miss
Panney, and although she did not come to hear them, they liked very much
to go to hear her. Mr. Hampton, the Methodist, would talk to her about
flower-gardening and the by-gone people and ways of the region, while Mr.
Ames, the rector, who was a young man, did not hesitate to assert that he
frequently got very good hints for passages in his sermons, from remarks
made by Miss Panney about things that were going on in the religious and
social world.

But although Miss Panney took pleasure in the company of clergymen and
physicians, she boldly asserted that she liked lawyers better.

"In the law," she would say, "you find things fixed and settled. A law
is a law, the same for everybody, and no matter how much people may
wrangle and dispute about it, it is there, and you can read it for
yourself. But the practice of medicine has to be shifted to suit
individual cases, and the practice of theology is shifted to suit
individual creeds, and you can't put your finger on steady principles as
you can in law. When I put my finger down, I like to be sure what is
under it."

Miss Panney had other reasons for liking lawyers, for her first real
friend had been her legal guardian, old Mr. Bannister of Thorbury. She
was one of the few people of the place who remembered this old gentleman,
and she had often told how shocked and pained she had been when summoned
from boarding-school to attend his funeral, and how she had been
impressed by the idea that the preparations for this important event
consisted mainly in beating up eggs, stemming raisins, baking cakes and
pies, and making all sorts of provision for the sumptuous entertainment
of the people who should be drawn together by the death of the principal
citizen of the town. To her mind it would have been more appropriate had
the company been fed on bread and water.

Thomas Bannister, who succeeded to his father's business, had been Miss
Panney's legal friend and counsellor for many years. But he, too, was
dead, and the office had now devolved on Herbert Bannister, the grandson
of the old gentleman, and the brother of Miss Dora.

Herbert and Miss Panney were very good friends, but not yet cronies. He
was still under thirty, and there were many events of the past of which
he knew but little, and about which he could not wholly sympathize with
her. But she believed that years would ripen him, and that the time would
come when she would get along as well with him as she had with his father
and grandfather.

She was not supposed to be a rich woman, and she had not been much
engaged in suits at law, but it was surprising how much legal business
Miss Panney had, as well as business of many other kinds.

When Mrs. Tolbridge had left her, the old lady put away her scrap-book,
and prepared to go downstairs.

"It is a great pity," she said to herself, "that one of the bodily
ailments which is bound to show itself in the family in the course of the
spring, should not have turned up to-day. I want very much to talk to the
doctor about the young man at Cobhurst, and I cannot drive about the
country in such weather as this."




CHAPTER III

BROTHER AND SISTER


There were other people in and around Thorbury, who very much wanted to
know something about the young man at Cobhurst, but this desire was
interfered with by the fact that the young man was not yet at Cobhurst,
and did not seem to be in a hurry to get there.

Cobhurst was the name of an estate a mile or so from the Witton farm,
whose wide fields had lain for a half a dozen years untilled, and whose
fine old mansion had been, for nearly a year, uninhabited. Its former
owner, Matthias Butterwood, a bachelor, and during the greater part of
his life, a man who took great pride in his farm, his stock, and his
fruit trees, had been afflicted in his later years with various kinds of
rheumatism, and had been led to wander about to different climates and
different kinds of hot springs for the sake of physical betterment.

When at home in these latter days, old Butterwood had been content to
have his garden cultivated, for he could still hobble about and look at
that, and had left his fields to take care of themselves, until he should
be well enough to be his own farmer, as he had always been. But old age,
coming to the aid of his other complaints, had carried him off a few
months before this story begins.

The only person now living at Cobhurst was a colored man named Mike,
who inhabited the gardener's house and held the office of care-taker of
the place.

Whenever Mike now came to town with his old wagon and horse, or when he
was met on the road, he found people more and more inquisitive about the
new owner of Cobhurst. Mike was not altogether a negro, having a good
deal of Irish blood in his veins, and this conjunction of the two races
in his individuality had had the effect upon his speech of destroying all
tendency to negro dialect or Irish brogue, so that, in fact, he spoke
like ordinary white people of his grade in life. The effect upon his
character, however, had been somewhat different, and while the vivacity
of the African and that of the Hibernian, in a degree, had neutralized
each other, making him at times almost as phlegmatic as the traditional
Dutchman, he would sometimes exhibit the peculiarities of a Sambo, and
sometimes those of a Paddy.

Mike could give no satisfaction to his questioners; he knew nothing of
the newcomer, except that he had received a postal card, directed to the
man in charge of Cobhurst, and which stated that Mr. Haverley would
arrive there on the fourth of April.

"More'n that," Mike would say, "I don't know nothin'. Whether he's old or
young, and what family he's got, I can't tell ye. All I know is, that he
don't seem in no hurry to see his place, an' he must be a reg'lar city
man, or he'd know that winter's the time to come to work a farm in the
spring of the year."

Other people, however, knew more about Mr. Haverley than Mike did, and
Miss Panney could have informed any one that he was a young man,
unmarried, and a second nephew to old Butterwood. She had faith that Dr.
Tolbridge could give her some additional points, provided she could get
an opportunity of properly questioning him.

Meanwhile the days passed on; the roads about Thorbury dried up and grew
better; in low, sheltered places, the grass showed a greenish hue; the
willows turned yellow, and people began to ponder over the catalogues of
seed merchants. At last, it was the third of April, and on that day, in
a large bright room of a New York boarding-house, kneeling in front of an
open trunk, were Mr. Ralph Haverley and his sister Miriam.

Presently Miriam, whose years had not yet reached fifteen, vigorously
pushed a pair of slippers into an unoccupied crevice in the trunk, and
then, drawing back, seated herself on a stool.

"The delightful thing about this packing is," she said, "that it will
never have to be done again. I am not going to any school, or any country
place to board; you are not going to a hotel, not to any house kept by
other people; our things do not have to be packed separately; we can put
them in anywhere where they will fit; we are both going to the same
place; we are going home, and there we shall stay."

"Always?" asked her brother, looking up with a smile.

"Always," answered Miriam. "When one gets a home, one stays there. At
least I do."

"And you will not even go away to school?" he asked.

"By no means," said his sister, looking at him with much earnestness. "I
have been to school ever since I was six years old,--nearly nine
years,--and I positively declare that that is long enough for any girl.
Others stay later, but then they do not begin so soon. As to finishing my
education, as they call it, I shall do that at home. What a happy
thought! It makes me want to skip. And you are to be my teacher, Ralph. I
am sure you know everything that I shall need to know."

Ralph laughed.

"I suppose you will examine me to see what I do know," he said, as he
folded a heavy overcoat and laid it in the trunk.

Miriam sprang up and began to collect more of her effects.

"We shall see about that," she said, and then, suddenly stopping, she
turned toward her brother. "There is one thing, Ralph, about which I need
not examine you at all, and that is goodness of heart. If you had not had
a very good heart indeed, you would not have waited and waited and
waited--fairly pinching yourself, I expect--till I could get away from
school and we could both go together and look at our new home in the very
same instant."

Ralph Haverley was a brown-haired, bright-eyed young fellow under thirty.
He had been educated for a profession, but the death of his parents,
before he reached his majority, made it necessary for him to go to work
at something by which he could immediately earn money enough to support
not only himself, but his little sister. At his father's death, which
occurred a month or two after that of his mother, young Haverley found
that the family resources, which had never been great, had almost
entirely disappeared. He could barely scrape together enough money to
send Miriam to a boarding-school and to keep himself alive until he could
get work. He had spent a great part of his boyhood in the country. His
tastes and disposition inclined him to an out-door life, and, had he been
able, he would have gone to the West, and established himself upon a
ranch. But this was impossible; he must do the work that was nearest at
hand, and as soon as he found it, he set himself at it with a will.

For eight long years he had struggled and labored; changing his
occupation several times, but always living in the city; always making
his home in a boardinghouse or a hotel. His pluck and energy had had its
reward, and for the past three years he had held a responsible and
well-paid position in a mercantile house. But his life and his work had
for him nothing but a passing interest; he had no sympathy with bonded
warehouses, invoices, and ledgers. All he could look forward to was a
higher position, a larger salary, and, when Miriam should graduate, a
little home somewhere where she could keep house for him. In his dreams
of this home, he would sometimes place it in the suburbs, where Sundays
and holidays spent in country air would compensate for hasty breakfasts,
early morning trains, and late ones in the afternoon. But when he
reflected that it would not do to leave his young sister alone all day in
a thinly settled, rural place, at the mercy of tramps, he was forced to
the conclusion that the thing for them to do was to live in a city
apartment. But there was nothing in either of these outlooks to create
fervent longings in the soul of Ralph Haverley.

For some legal reason, probably connected with the fact that old
Butterwood died at a health resort in Arkansas, Haverley did not learn
until late in the winter that his mother's uncle had left to him the
estate of Cobhurst. The reason for this bequest, as stated in the will,
was the old man's belief that the said Ralph Haverley was the only one of
his blood relations who seemed to be getting on in the world, and to him
he left the house, farm, and all the personal property he might find
therein and thereon, but not one cent of money. Where the testator's
money was bestowed, Ralph did not know, for he did not see the will.

When Ralph heard of his good fortune, his true life seemed to open before
him; his Butterwood blood boiled in his veins. He did not hesitate a
moment as to his course, for he was of the opinion that if a healthy
young man could not make a living out of a good farm he did not deserve
to live at all. He gave immediate notice of his intention to abandon
mercantile life, and set himself to work by day and by night to wind up
his business affairs, so that he might be free by the beginning of April.
It was this work which helped him to control his desire to run off and
take a look at Cobhurst without waiting for his sister.

Of the place which was to be their home, Miriam knew absolutely nothing,
but Ralph had heard his mother talk about her visits to her uncle, and,
in his mind, the name Cobhurst had always called up visions of wide halls
and lofty chambers, broad piazzas, sunny slopes and lawns, green meadows,
and avenues bordered with tall trees--a grand estate in fact, with woods
full of nuts, streams where a boy could fish, and horses that he might
ride. Had these ideas existed in Miriam's mind, the brother and sister
would have visited Cobhurst the day after he brought her the letter from
the lawyer; but her conceptions of the place were vague and without form,
except when she associated it with the homes of girls she had visited.
But as none of these suited her very well, she preferred to fall back
upon chaotic anticipation.

"When I think of Cobhurst," she wrote to her brother, "I smell marigolds,
and think of rather poor blackberries that you pick from bushes. Please
do not put in your letters anything that you know about it, for I would
rather see everything for myself."




CHAPTER IV

THE HOME


It was late in the afternoon when Ralph and Miriam Haverley alighted at
the station at Thorbury. Miss Dora Bannister, who had come down to see a
friend off, noticed the two standing on the platform. She did not know
who they were, but she thought the one to be a very handsome young man,
and the other a nice-looking girl who seemed to be all eyes.

"What a queer-looking colored man!" said Miriam. "He looks mashed on
top."

The person alluded to was getting down from a wagon drawn by a mournful
horse, and now approached the platform.

"Is you Mr. Hav'ley, sir?" he said, touching his hat. "Thought so; I'm
the man in charge o' yer place. Got any baggage, sir?"

On being informed that the travellers had brought three trunks with them,
and that some boxes would be expected on the morrow, Mike, who with his
worn felt hat pressed flat upon his head, might give one the idea of a
bottle with the cork driven in, stood for a moment in thought.

"I can take one trunk," he said, "the one ye will want the most tonight,
and ye'd better have the others hauled over tomorrow with the boxes. Ye
can both go in the wagon, if ye like. The seat can be pushed back, and I
can sit on the trunk myself, or ye can hire a kerridge."

"Of course we will take a cab," said Ralph. "How far is it to Cobhurst?"

"Well, some says three miles, and some says four. It depends a good deal
on the roads. They're pretty good today."

Having engaged the services of a country cabman, who declared that he
had known Cobhurst ever since he was born, and having arranged for
the transfer of their goods the next day, the Haverleys rattled out
of the town.

"Now," said Miriam, "we are truly going home, and I do not remember ever
doing that before. And, Ralph," she continued, after gazing right and
left from the cab windows, "one of the first things we ought to do is to
get a new man to take charge of the place. That person isn't fit. I never
saw such slouchy clothes."

Ralph laughed. "I am the man who is to have charge of the place," he
said. "What do you think of my clothes?"

Miriam gave a little pull at his hair for reply. "And there is another
thing," she continued. "If that is our horse and wagon, don't you really
think that we ought to sell them? They are awful."

"Don't be in a hurry," said Ralph. "We shall soon find out whether we own
the horse or not. He may belong to the man. He's not a bad one, either.
See, he is passing us now with that big trunk in the wagon."

"Passing us!" exclaimed Miriam. "Almost any horse could do that. Did you
ever see such an old poke as we have, and such a bouncy, jolting
rattletrap of a carriage? It squeaks all over."

"Alas," said Ralph, "I am thinking of something worse than jolts or
squeaks. I am hungry, and I am sure you must be, and I don't see what we
are going to do about supper. I am afraid I am not a very good manager,
yet. I had an idea that Cobhurst was not so far from the station, and
that we could go over and look at the house, and come back to a hotel and
stay there for the night; but now I see it will be dark before we get
there, and we shall not feel like turning round and going directly back.
Perhaps it would be better to turn now."

"Turn back, when we are going to our home!" cried Miriam. "How can you
think of such a thing, Ralph? And you needn't suppose that neither of us
is a good manager. I am housekeeper now, and I did not forget that we
shall need our supper. I have it all there in my bag, and I shall cook
it as soon as we reach the house. Of course I knew that we could not
expect anything to eat in a place with only a man to take care of it."

"What in the world have you?" asked Ralph, much amused.

"I have four breakfast rolls," she said, "six mutton chops, a package of
ground coffee, another of tea, a pound of sugar, and a good big piece of
gingerbread. I am sorry I couldn't bring any butter, but I was afraid
that might melt in a warm car, and run over everything. As for milk, we
shall have to make up our minds to do without that for one meal. I got up
early this morning, and went out and bought all these things."

Ralph was on the point of saying, "What are we going to have for
breakfast?" But he would not trouble his sister's mind with any such
suggestions.

"You are a good little housewife," said he; "I wish we were there, and
sitting down at the table--if there is any table."

"I have thought it all out," said Miriam, "if it is one of those large
farm-houses, with a big kitchen, where the family eat and spend their
evening, we shall eat there, too, this once. You shall build a fire,
and I'll have the coffee made in no time. There must be a coffee-pot,
or a tin cup, or something to boil in. The chops can be broiled over
the coals."

"On what?" asked Ralph.

"You can get a pointed stick and toast them, if there is no other way,
sir. And you need not make fun of my supper; the chops are very nice
ones, and I have wrapped them up in oiled silk, so that they will not
grease the other things."

"Oh, don't talk any more about them," exclaimed Ralph. "It makes me too
dreadfully hungry."

"If it is a cottage," remarked Miriam, looking reflectively out of the
window, "I cannot get it out of mind that there will be all sorts of
kitchen things hanging around the old-fashioned fireplace. That would be
very nice and convenient, but--"

"You hope it is not a cottage?" said her brother.

"Well," answered Miriam, presently, "home is home, and I made up my mind
to be perfectly satisfied with it whatever kind of house it may be. It
seems to me that a real home ought to be like parents and relations;
we've got them, and we can't change them, and we never think of such a
thing. We love them quite as they are. But I cannot help hoping, just a
little, that it is not a cottage. The only ones I have ever been in smelt
so much of soapsuds."

It was now quite dark, and the road appeared to be growing rougher. Every
now and then they jolted over a big stone, or sunk into a deep rut. Ralph
let down the front window.

"Are we nearly there?" he asked of the driver.

"Yes, sir," said the man; "we are on the place now."

"You don't mean," exclaimed Miriam, "that this is our road!"

"It's a good deal washed just here," said the man, "by the heavy rains."

Presently the road became smoother and in a few minutes the
carriage stopped.

"I am trembling all over," said Miriam, "with thinking of being at home,
and with not an idea of what it is like."

In a moment they were standing on a broad flagstone. Although it was
dark, they could see the outline of the house before them.

"Ralph," whispered Miriam, drawing close to her brother, "it is not a
cottage." Without waiting for a reply she went on: "Ralph," she said, her
hands trembling as they held his arm, "it is lordly."

"I had some sort of an idea like that myself," he answered; "but, my
dear, don't you think it will be well to keep this man until we go inside
and see what sort of accommodations we shall find? Perhaps we may be
obliged to go back to the town."

Miriam immediately began to ascend the broad steps of the piazza.

"Come on, Ralph," she said, "and please don't talk like that."

Her brother laughed, paid the driver and dismissed him.

"Now, little girl," he cried, "we have burned our ships, and must take
what we shall find."

"Oh, Ralph," cried Miriam, "I couldn't have gone back. If there are
floors to the rooms, they will do to sleep on for to-night."

At this moment a wide front door opened, revealing a colored woman
holding a lamp.

"Good evenin'," said she; "walk in."

When Ralph and Miriam had entered, the woman looked out the open door.

"Is you all?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," said Ralph.

The woman hesitated a moment, looked out again, and then closed the door.

"Would you like to go to your rooms afore supper?" she asked.

The brother and sister were so absorbed in gazing about them, that they
did not hear the question. The lamp, still in the woman's hand, gave a
poor and vacillating light, but they could see a wide, long hall, tall
doors opening on each side, some high-backed chairs, and other
dark-colored furniture.

"Yer rooms is ready," continued the woman; "ye can take yer pick of them.
Supper'll be on the table the minute ye come down. Ye'd better take this
lamp, sir, and thar's another one in the upper hall. I expect ye two is
brother and sister. Ye're alike as two pins of different sizes."

"You're right," said Ralph, holding up the lamp, and looking about him;
"but please tell me, where are the stairs?"

"Oh, yer open that glass door right in front of ye," said the woman. "I'd
go with yer, but I smell somethin' bilin' over now."

Opening the glass door, they saw before them a narrow staircase in
two flights.

"Stairs shut up in a room of their own," said Ralph, as they ascended.
"Did you ever see anything like this before?"

"I never saw anything like anything before," said Miriam, in a low,
reverent voice.

On the floor above they found another wide hall, and four or five
open doors.

"There is your lamp," said Ralph to his sister; "take the first room you
come to, and to-morrow we will pick and choose."

"Who would have thought," said Miriam, "that a woman--"

"Don't let us think or talk of her now," interrupted her brother. "To
hurry down to supper is our present business."

When the two went downstairs, they found the colored woman standing by an
open door in the rear of the hall.

"Supper's ready, sir," said she, and they entered the dining-room.

It was a large and rather sparely furnished room, but Miriam and Ralph
took no note of anything except the table, which stood in the middle of
the floor, lighted by a hanging lamp. It was a large table and arranged
for eight people with chairs at every place. The woman gave a little
laugh, as she said:--

"I reckon you all may think this is a pretty big table for two people,
an' one not growed up, but you see I didn't know nothin' about the size
of the family, an' Mike he didn't know nothin' either. I'm Phoebe, Mike's
wife, an' I ain't got nothin' in the world to do with this house, for
mostly I go out to service in the town, but I'm here now; and of course
we didn't want you all to come an' find nothin' to eat, an' no beds made,
an' as you didn't write no orders, sir, we had just to do the best we
could accordin' to our own lights. I reckoned there would be the gem'en
and his wife, an' perhaps two growed-up sons, though Mike, he was
doubtful about the growed-up sons, especially as to thar bein' two of
them. Then I reckoned thar'd be a darter, just about your age, Miss, an'
then there'd be two younger chillen, one a boy an' one a girl, an' a
gov'ness for these two. Of course I didn't know whether the gov'ness was
in the habit of eatin' at your table or not, but I reckoned that this
time, comin' so late, you'd all eat at the same table, an' I put a plate
an' a cheer for her. An' Mike went ter town, an' got groc'ries an' things
enough for to-night and tomorrow, an' as everything was ready I just left
everything as it was. I reckoned you wouldn't want ter wait until I'd sot
the whole table over again."