"Well, Bathalina," Mrs. Sanford said with despair in her voice, "if you must go, I suppose you must; but this is the third Wednesday you've been to that funeral, and I think that's plenty. It isn't lucky to put off a funeral; and here's all these cucumbers to pickle, and I can't possibly spare you, but I suppose I'll have to."

"Cousin Sam's child don't die every day," the maid retorted; "and of course they couldn't bury her alive."

"Oh, dear, no!" her mistress assented. "That would be too awful; but I want you to be sure she is really dead before you go to her funeral again."

"Yes, she's dead," was the answer. "Peter Mixon came over last night and told me."

"Peter Mixon had better mind his own business. You told me yourself, Bathalina, that he was going to be married this very month to that West girl."

"Yes, mum, of course. But it's a great cross to him. He asked me first, and if it hadn't been for my sinful pride I'd a had him in the first place."

"Sinful fire-shovels!" Mrs. Sanford exclaimed. "You turned him off because he was after the money you've got in the bank, so don't let me hear any more about him. If you are going to this protracted funeral, go along; and I do hope the remains won't need a great deal more burying. As for Peter Mixon, the less you have to do with him the better."

"I feel confident," Bathalina answered, "that it's the last funeral the child'll ever have; but in the midst of life we are in death."

"You may be," retorted her mistress bustling about; "but I'm in the midst of pickling, and can't stop to talk. Go along."

"Mother," Patty asked, appearing in the doorway, "what is the trouble?"

"Bathalina has gone traipsing off to her funeral again; and here are these cucumbers to do, and the kitchen all in heaps. She's got fool in the head worse than ever to-day."

"What awful slang, mother. Never mind, I'll help."

The next visitor to the kitchen was Flossy, who, having searched the rest of the house for her cousin, at length discovered her with sleeves rolled up, engaged in washing dishes.

"Goodness gracious, Patsy!" she exclaimed. "Are you here?"

"Mercy sakes, Flossy!" said her aunt. "Don't say 'goodness gracious,' it sounds so."

"No: I'll say 'mercy sakes,' Aunt Britann," her niece returned saucily. "Patty, what are you washing dishes for?"

"Somebody must do it; and Bathalina, the insane, has gone off."

"You are becoming a very model miss. Have you forgotten they are coming this morning to read this play?"

"I had forgotten all about that. I'm sorry, marmee, but I don't see but I must leave you in the lurch. Here comes somebody now."

The first thing concerning which a country audience is anxious is that it "gets its money's worth;" and in amateur theatricals success depends much upon the duration of the entertainment. Two plays had therefore been chosen; one a melodramatic affair entitled, "The Faithful Jewess," and the other a jolly little comedy called "The Country Wooing." Patty, who was "the favorite local actress," as Will put it, had been cast in both plays. Clarence Toxteth was her Jewish lover, toward a union with whom she struggled hopefully but vainly through the most heart-rending situations. A pretended friend,

endeavored to separate the betrothed, with fatal success. Mr. Putnam had declined to take part; and the rÔle which had been offered him had been given to the postmaster, one Sol Shankland.

The company assembled this morning in Mrs. Sanford's wide, low sitting-room, numbered about a score; and Babel itself could scarcely have been noisier. The girls talked of their parts, their dresses, their hopes and fears, of this, that, and the other, until the general effect was that of mill-wheels running ever faster and faster, quite beyond the control of any regulator.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Will at last. "'I would I were dead and worms had eaten me, but not for love.' If there isn't silence here in three seconds, there will be blood shed!"

By the most energetic measures in the way of pounding and shouting, something like quiet was obtained, and the meeting proceeded to business. The two plays were read, rehearsals appointed, and a great deal said about the necessity of being letter-perfect before the next meeting.

"By Monday," Patty said, "we ought to be able to rehearse without a book."

"Mr. Blackfan is off," Sol Shankland said, "so we shall have nothing to do Sunday but to study our parts."

"How immoral!" exclaimed Miss Sturtevant. "I shall lie in a hammock all day and read."

"I suppose," Will Sanford said, "that I am the most unfortunate man that ever happened. I sent to Uncle Christopher for his grandfather's knee-breeches, and now I can't get into them."

"That is because they are small-clothes," suggested Ease Apthorpe.

"I think we have some at home," Toxteth said: "if you will come over, I'll see."

When rehearsal was over, Clarence and Will accordingly walked off together, accompanying Ease Apthorpe, who lived in the same direction. Frank Breck showed some inclination to join the group as they moved down the walk, but changed his mind, and accompanied Miss Sturtevant towards Mrs. Brown's.

The Toxteth mansion lay halfway between Dr. Sanford's and Mullen House, as was somewhat fancifully called the home of Ease. Will asked Ease to wait for him, as he was going with her after an extra play-book. Mrs. Toxteth was sitting upon the veranda, and invited Ease to a seat by her side while the young men went into the house.

"It makes me think of old times when theatricals come up," Mrs. Toxteth said. "I have always been extravagantly fond of acting and of masquerades."

"I wish we could have a masquerade," remarked Ease. "We have only had one in three years."

"Why not have one, then?"

"The girls say it is so much trouble to get up costumes. It is a bother, it is so difficult to get things."

"But now when you have your costumes all made for the plays, why not use them? You could arrange to exchange among yourselves."

"The very thing!" Ease exclaimed. "I am so glad you thought of it."

"As a reward," Mrs. Toxteth said, "I claim the privilege of giving the party. But don't speak of it just yet until I've talked with Clarence."

"Will," Ease asked as they walked towards Mullen House, "how long does Flossy mean to stay in Montfield? I am getting so fond of her that I don't like to think of her going back to Boston."

"'It may be for years, and it may be forever,'" he replied. "The case is just this. Flossy's father—you know there's nobody left in the family but these two now—cares for nothing in the world but his dinners and whist, as far as I can make out. I don't know Uncle Christopher very well, but he has the reputation of giving the best dinners of any man in his club. He had one once when I was there; and such a set of red-nosed, blear-eyed, pottle-paunched"—

"Will!"

"I beg your pardon, but the old sinners that came to that dinner were enough to disgust anybody. They were like the people Paul tells about, each carrying his own individual god under his waistcoat. No wonder Flossy doesn't care to stay at home to dine with those ogres."

"It can't be very nice for her."

"No more is it. She likes to stay here, and we certainly like to have her. As for her father, if his soup and his wines are right he is troubled by no concern for the whereabouts of his friends. So, on the whole, I dare say she may remain indefinitely."

"Don't you think she and Burleigh Blood are getting to be very good friends?"

"I hadn't noticed. I thought he was one of Patty's followers."

"He isn't so much so now," Ease answered. "To-day at rehearsal he called her Flossy, and then colored and stammered and begged her pardon. I don't believe he ever did it before."

She was right; for at that very moment Burleigh Blood was walking along a sweet country road, saying softly over and over to his bashful but happy self: "Flossy, Flossy. And she said I was always to call her so. Flossy: what a pretty name it is too!"