It was a June morning twenty years later, and Elizabeth's hands were full of June roses.

"Look," she said, holding them out "how beautiful!" She placed them in a flat china dish and proceeded to arrange them, humming, as she did so, a gay little tune from some favorite opera of the day. The Misses Van Vorst, her aunts, who had been talking rather seriously before the girl entered, broke off in their conversation and brightened as they watched her.

There had been times in Elizabeth's childhood when the heart of each sister had been contracted by a secret fear, which they concealed even from one another, when they had offered up in seclusion fervent prayers that certain hereditary characteristics might not be revived in this treasure which fortune had unexpectedly bestowed upon them. These prayers had been to all appearance more than answered. Elizabeth did not look like her mother. It was true that the beautiful, wavy hair, which grew in soft ripples on her forehead, showed in the full glare of the sunshine or the firelight a trace, a suspicion of the deep red which in her mother's locks had been unpleasantly vivid; but with Elizabeth, it was a warm Titian shade which would delight an artist. In other respects, it was her grandmother whom she resembled, as very old people in the Neighborhood would sometimes inform you, wondering to see the beauty and distinction which had perversely skipped one generation, reproduced in this bar-maid's daughter. Certainly it was from Madam Van Vorst that the girl inherited the haughty turn of the head and the instinctive pride of carriage. The older woman's beauty may have been more perfect. Elizabeth's features were admittedly far from classical. Her nose tilted slightly, the chin was too square, the red, pouting lips were perhaps a trifle too full. But her skin was dazzlingly fair and fresh, and there was a glow of color and wealth of outline about her which disarmed criticism. The eyes, under their long lashes, were large and lustrous. Like her hair, they varied in different lights, or perhaps it was in different moods. They seemed a clear gray when she was thoughtful, blue when she smiled, and they grew, in moments of grief or acute emotion, singularly deep and dark. But such moments had, at this period of her life, been rare.

To her aunts, as they watched her that morning, she was the visible embodiment of all those stifled aspirations, to which Peter's marriage had apparently given a fatal blow. They could think now without bitterness of that great humiliation, and if they spoke of their brother's wife, it was with due propriety as "poor Malvina." They owed her after all, a debt of gratitude, since she was Elizabeth's mother, who had died most opportunely when Elizabeth was a baby.

The girl had been their sole charge from the first, for Peter concerned himself little about his motherless child. His death, when she was still very young, could hardly be considered an unmitigated affliction. As for Elizabeth, it was chiefly remarkable in being the occasion of her first black frock, on the strength of which she gave herself airs towards her less afflicted playmates.

Thus the Misses Van Vorst were free to carry out certain cherished plans in regard to their niece's future, which they had formed when, hanging over her cradle, they had fondly traced a resemblance to the grandmother after whom she had been named, through some odd, remorseful freak of Peter's. Impelled, as she grew older, by a wistful consciousness of all that they had missed, they heroically resigned themselves to part with her for a while that she might enjoy the advantages of a very select and extremely expensive school in town. And after five years she returned to them, not over-burdened by much abstruse knowledge, but with a graceful carriage, a charming intonation, a considerable stock of accomplishments, and the prettiest gowns of any girl in the Neighborhood.

Her return was the signal for the changes at the Homestead, which now made the old house a cheerful place to live in. The sunlight, no longer excluded by the overgrown foliage, flooded the drawing-room, and from the long French windows, opening out on the well-kept lawn, you caught a charming glimpse of the river. The fire-place was decorated in white and gold, the polished floor was strewn with rugs. Amid the profusion of modern chairs and tables and bric-À-brac were old heirlooms which had mouldered in the attic for generations, un-thought of and despised, till Elizabeth routed them out and placed them, rather to her aunts' surprise, in a conspicuous position. The walls were hung with fine engravings, books and magazines were scattered here and there. Across one corner stood the much-coveted piano.

The improvement was not confined to the furniture. The Misses Van Vorst, too, seemed to have progressed and assumed a more modern air, in harmony with their present surroundings. They were old women now, and people of the present generation placed carefully the prefix "Miss" before their Christian names; but in many ways, they were younger and certainly far happier than they were twenty years before. It was Elizabeth who had made the change, it was she who had filled their narrow lives with a wonderful new interest. And yet, it was on her account that they felt just then the one anxiety which disturbed their satisfaction in the warmth of her youth and beauty, nay, was rather intensified because of it.

"We were saying, dear," Miss Cornelia could not help observing after a moment "just as you came in, that it is a pity the Neighborhood is so dull. There is so little amusement for a young girl."

"We used to think it quite gay when we were young," said Miss Joanna, her knitting-needles clicking cheerfully as she talked. "There was always a lawn-party at the Van Antwerps', and Mrs. Courtenay was at home every Saturday, and then the fair for the church."

"But Mrs. Courtenay doesn't stay at home any longer," said Miss Cornelia, dejectedly, "and the Van Antwerps haven't given a thing for ever so long, and as for the fair—the church has everything it needs now—steeple, font, everything, so there is no object in having a fair."

"And so few people to buy if there were," sighed Miss Joanna, becoming despondent in her turn. "I quite miss it—I used to enjoy making things for it. Really now, if it were not for knitting socks for Mrs. Anderton's new babies, I should be quite at a loss for something to do."

Elizabeth, who had turned and stared from one to the other, as if in surprise at the introduction of a new subject, here broke in with a soft little laugh. "Well, auntie, Mrs. Anderton certainly keeps you busy," she said, consolingly "and as for the fair—why, I don't know that it would be such wild dissipation." Insensibly at the last words, her mouth drooped at the corners, the eyes, which an instant before had sparkled with amusement, grew thoughtful. A slight cloud of discontent seemed to drift over the buoyant freshness of her mood.

Miss Cornelia observed it and continued to lament. "Well, at least, a fair would be something," she insisted "and then in old times there used to be dances. If you went out to tea—oftener, my dear—even that would be a diversion."

The cloud on Elizabeth's face deepened. She bent down with elaborate care to place the last rose in position. "Oh, I don't know that it matters much," she said, and there was a sudden hardness in her tone. "There are no men for a dance, and as for the tea-parties—they don't amuse me very much. There are always the Andertons, or Johnstons, or both; and they talk about Mrs. Anderton's babies, of Mrs. Johnston's rheumatism, or the way the village girls dress; and the Rector asks me to take a class in Sunday-school, and looks shocked when I refuse; and—and it is all stupid and tiresome. I—I s-sometimes—I hate this place, and all the people in it," Elizabeth broke off, with a sound not unlike a sob.

Her aunts were paralyzed. This outburst of revolt was to them an entirely new phase in the girl's development. They did not attempt any response, or rebuke, and Elizabeth, after a moment, went over and kissed them each remorsefully. "There, don't mind me," she said. "I'm a horrid, discontented wretch." Then, as if to put an end to the subject, she added quickly: "I'm going to drive to Bassett Mills. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Her aunts gladly accepted the change of mood.

"It's a lovely morning for a drive, dear," said Miss Joanna, "and will do you good. But I wish, if you go, you would stop at the Rectory—the baby is ill, so the butcher tells me, and I have some beef-tea I'd like you to take."

Elizabeth's smile again lit up her face into its former brilliance. "What would you do without the butcher, Aunt Joanna?" she asked. "He's a perfect mine of information. Did he have any other news this morning?"

"Only that he had just come from the Van Antwerps'—they are up at last for the summer."

"Are they," said Elizabeth, carelessly. "Ah, well, they don't make much difference, one way or the other." She seemed to reflect a moment, while again her face clouded. "If I go to the Rectory," she said abruptly, "I suppose I must stop to see Aunt Rebecca. She will see me pass, and she is always complaining that I neglect her."

The Misses Van Vorst again looked distressed. The aunt of whom Elizabeth spoke, Malvina's sister-in-law, kept a small dry-goods shop, much patronized by the Neighborhood, and had risen considerably above the original position of the family. Yet the older ladies of the Homestead could never be reminded of her existence without a sharp recollection of a painful chapter in the family history. Had they consulted only their wishes, Elizabeth would never have been informed of the connection. They were just women, however, and admitted the claims of Elizabeth's only relation on her mother's side, and one who had a daughter, too, of about the girl's own age.

"Of course, my dear," Miss Cornelia said at last, reluctantly, "we wouldn't have you neglect your aunt."

"No, poor thing," said Joanna "we wouldn't have you hurt her feelings for the world. So perhaps you would better stop there, my dear; and if you do, will you get me some sewing-silk from the store?"

This proved by no means the only commission with which Elizabeth was burdened when she started, half an hour later; for Miss Joanna had had time to remember several other things she wanted from the store, to say nothing of the beef-tea for the Rector's wife, and numerous messages of advice and sympathy, which the girl was earnestly charged not to forget. Miss Cornelia had no commissions, and merely asked Elizabeth to remember, when she came home, every one whom she had seen, to inquire of the Johnstons, if she met them, how their grandmother was, and to notice, if she saw the Van Antwerps, if they had their new carriage, and what Mrs. Bobby had on. At last Elizabeth drove off, in the old-fashioned pony-chaise, behind the fat white pony whose age was wrapped in obscurity, and who trod, with the leisurely indifference of a well-bred carriage-horse, the road which he knew by heart.

It was a pleasant, shady road, that ran between stone fences, across which you caught the scent of honey-suckle. Beyond were fine places, once the pride of the Neighborhood, now for the most part neglected, or turned into pasturage for cows. The trees interlacing, formed an arch over-head, through which the sunlight flickered in long, slanting rays; the air was very still, except for the soft hum of bees, and a gentle wind that occasionally rustled the foliage and caressed the petals of the wild-roses, which grew in careless profusion along the road-side. Here and there, in sheltered nooks, wild violets still lingered, and the fresh green grass in the fields was thickly strewn with buttercups and daisies. But for all this beauty of the early summer Elizabeth seemed to have no eyes. Her brows were knit and her face clouded, and now and then she gave a vicious pull to the white pony's reins more as a relief to her own feelings than from any hope of hastening the movements of that dignified animal.

Her thoughts matched the day as little as her looks. Her mind still reverted with remorse to the outburst of an hour before. Why had she displayed that childish petulance, and given audible expression to the discontent which had smouldered unsuspected for many months? To speak of it was useless and only distressed her aunts; it was not their fault if the place was dull. And then she could, as a rule, amuse herself well enough. There were always drives and walks, the garden and the flowers, her books and her music, a hundred resources in which she found unceasing pleasure. There was even to her warm vitality a delight just then in the mere physical fact of living. And yet the times were growing more frequent day by day, when all this would fail her, when she would long passionately for novelty, for excitement, for something—she hardly knew what. There were desperate moments when it seemed to her that she would welcome any change whatsoever, when she thought that even storm and stress might be preferable to dull monotony.

After all, it was not the dullness of the place which lay at the root of her discontent. There was another trouble which went far deeper of which she never spoke; yet it affected her whole attitude towards the world, and more especially the Neighborhood. She did not feel at home in the small, charmed circle of those who knew each other so well, not even with the girls with whom she had played as a child. There had always been a tacit assumption of superiority on their part, which Elizabeth instinctively felt and resented. The most disagreeable episode in her life was a quarrel with one of her playmates, in which the latter had won the last word by an angry taunt against Elizabeth's mother, who was "a horrid, common woman, whom no one in the Neighborhood, would speak to—her mother had said so." Elizabeth, paralyzed, could think of no retort, but walked home in silence, shedding bitter tears of rage and mortification. She did not repeat the remark to her aunts—it was too painful and she somehow suspected too true; but that night she cried herself to sleep and had consoling dreams of a time when she should be a great personage, and able to turn the tables on her tormentors. This was a long time ago; but the old wound still rankled, and she held herself proudly aloof from her former playmates. They, on their part pronounced her hard to get on with, and their mothers made no effort to encourage the intimacy. In the conservative society of the Neighborhood, Peter's marriage was still vividly remembered, and could not easily be forgiven. Elizabeth was pretty and to all appearance, well-bred, but still people thought of her antecedents and maintained towards her an attitude of doubt. It was the perception of this fact, the consciousness of having begun life at a disadvantage, which embittered Elizabeth's thoughts as she drove through the country lanes that June morning.

The sun was high in the heavens when she reached Bassett Mills, a nondescript place, neither town nor village, and much over-shadowed by the glories of Cranston, not ten miles away. "The Mills" is not very prosperous, but it has its factory, and the mill-stream, dashing precipitously through its midst, lends some picturesqueness to the squalid houses on its banks. There was a certain life and movement this morning about the steep High Street, down which the white pony took his leisurely way. A stream of factory people passed by to their noon-day dinner; the street was full of wagons and carriages from the Neighborhood. Elizabeth saw the Van Antwerp dog-cart standing in front of the hardware shop, and caught a smile and bow from Mrs. Bobby, which surprised her by their graciousness. Later on she met the Courtenays, whom she knew better, but who greeted her more coldly. Elizabeth's own bow was stiff, and the cloud which Mrs. Bobby's cordiality had dispelled, again darkened her face.

She went on to the Rectory, but here she found that the baby's illness had developed into measles, and she could deposit her beef-tea at the door and take her leave with a clear conscience. Outside she stood in the hot sun debating if she should or should not stop to see her aunt and cousin. It was a long time since she had been there, and her aunt would be sure to assail her with reproaches. Amanda, too, would feel injured, and look the spiteful things which she never actually said. But then Elizabeth could usually rise superior to any spitefulness that Amanda might display. She felt on the whole very kindly towards her cousin, she liked to show her pretty gowns, and her good-nature had even stood the test of several bungling attempts on Amanda's part to imitate them. There were moments when, in the dearth of society, Elizabeth would turn with a certain affection to this uncongenial cousin, who at other times jarred upon her greatly.

It was the remembrance of Miss Joanna's commissions that on this occasion turned the scale in favor of the intended visit. Elizabeth left the white pony, who would stand an indefinite time, and entered the small dry-goods shop, where her aunt or Amanda generally presided. It was empty. Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then she crossed the hall that led to the living-rooms of the family. Here she paused in astonishment. From behind the closed door of the parlor came the sound of a man's voice; a rich, barytone voice singing from TannhÄuser the song of the Evening Star. Elizabeth waited till it was over; then she opened the door and went in.