THE SWEETS OF VICTORY.

"Dear Miss Rothermel—

"The woman named Alphonsine is very penitent, and begs to stay. Do you think I might allow her?

Very truly yours,

"James Andrews."

Missy dashed off a reply on the other side of his sheet of paper in pencil.

"Don't keep her on any account. She is the worst of them all.

A.R."

As Missy twisted this up and handed it to the messenger, Mrs. Varian rather anxiously asked to see it. "Don't you even put it in an envelope?" she said glancing over the meagre slip. "Your notes are generally so nice; this doesn't look like you, and is hardly civil."

"Business is business," said Missy, twisting it up again, and going out to give it to the messenger. "I don't think it is worth while to waste monograms and London paper on such matters as these."

"What sudden thrift! Where are the children?"

"I am going to look for them," said Missy, drawing on her gloves. "I want to get them out of the way, and keep them safe, till the hegira is over. I haven't much faith in Mr. Andrews' having the nerve to do it; but perhaps I don't do him justice. If they are not all got off by the noon train to-day, I shall know it will never be done."

Missy carried the children out with her in the pony-wagon; she even took Mr. Andrews' intentions to be so probable of execution, that she went two or three miles inland to see the woman whom she had fixed upon in her own mind, as the successor to Alphonsine in the care of the children. She even stopped at the tin-man's, in the village, to get the address of a good substantial cook, whom she knew to be out of place, who had a settled reputation for bread-baking, and an honorable record in the matter of soup. She did not say for whom she wanted her—she was a little ashamed of taking it for granted, that her advice would be acted upon. All the same, it was as well to be prepared. She even drove to a house in one of the bye-streets of the village, to see if a certain Ellen, whose black eyes and white aprons had always met her approval, was still out of a situation. All these were at her command—cook, waitress, and nurse. It was fascinating to have everything go so smooth. How delightful to have your own way; how heavenly to make people carry out your plans. Through it all there ran one little thread of doubt as to the steadfastness of Mr. Andrews; this only gave the matter zest. She felt as if it were quite a stirring little vaudeville; it wasn't worth while to make tragedy out of it, and get angry if she were disappointed—but altogether she liked it. She liked driving about with her brisk little pony on a bright September morning like this, doing her errands, giving her orders, having people come out smiling to their gates to speak to her. She liked all this, even when it was only her own errands she did, and her own ordinary housekeeping that she looked out for. It was a pleasure to secure the best butter and the freshest eggs, and to drive to pretty, cool-looking farm-houses for them; to go for cornmeal and graham flour just ground, to a romantic-looking old mill by the edge of the woods, where the drip of the water and the shade of the trees made a perpetual cool. People who had things to sell were always glad to see her, for she bought a great many things and paid a good price for them. She was often called upon for favors and for advice, and this pleased her. The sight of the pretty little carriage was a signal for many an inhabitant of farm-house or village, to come out to the roadside and have a consultation with the young lady who drove it. She was a favorite, and it is pleasant to be important—and to have your own way. She generally had hers, even about other people's matters, for it was a very good way, and a good way presented in such a manner as was convincing. Of course, she had her disappointments; the clam-man's daughter did, on one occasion, marry the scallop-man's son, against her advice—but they came to such speedy grief, that it more than consoled her. The miller's wife was not willing, last Spring, to listen to reason about her butter, and so had lost all market for it among the people who paid high prices, and had to carry it, finally, to the "store," and take what she could get for it. Missy lost the butter, but she had the satisfaction of knowing, that the next year her advice would be promptly taken. All these things were sweet to her, but how much sweeter it was to be feeling that she was managing completely a household in which she had no legitimate business to interfere; that she was putting to rout a troop of worthless servants who had opposed her, and ill-treated her darling Jay. Above all, that she was making a very weak-kneed master stand firm. Oh, if she could be sure that he would stand firm! It was this doubt, that made her feel as if it were all genteel comedy, and really quite exciting.

The children were pretty good that morning, notwithstanding the orgies of the night before. Gabrielle was subdued and a little ashamed, and Jay's memory was not burdened with any remorse, nor had he missed his sleep, nor omitted to make a very good breakfast in his new quarters. He was burly and jolly and good as ever. He liked the drive, and the stops, and the fresh cool breeze, and the bright September sunshine, and the holding the whip in his hand.

The roadside was bright with golden-rod and purple asters, the Virginia creeper was turning red on the fences and over the trees where it had flung itself; catbrier, shining and glossy, cedar dark and dusky, sumach red and brown, all in mat and tangle of the luxuriant summer's growth, clothed the banks that edged the road. Jay stretched out his hand to catch the bright leaves when they passed near them; the bottom of the carriage was filled with branches of red leaves, with bunches of Michaelmas daisies and asters already withering in the sun.

Missy looked at her watch; it was just noon. Her heart beat high. They were on the road that led to the station. If the servants were sent off by the midday train, they must meet them in the course of a few moments. She now began to doubt whether it had not all fallen through. It was impossible to say how she despised Mr. Andrews when she thought it might be that he had given in. Every rod of road they passed over added to this conviction. She looked at her watch again. If they did not meet them within five minutes there was no further hope.

"What's the matter, Missy; why do you pull the pony so?" said Jay, looking up into her face. They were going down a hill, where the road was narrow, deep and sandy. At this moment they heard the lumbering, and caught sight of a heavy vehicle coming up the hill towards them.

"It's the stage!" cried Gabby, growing interested. "And there's LÉon, and there's Bridget, and there's Alphonsine, and all of 'em."

Jay at this news set up a great shout, and started to his feet.

"Sit down, Jay," cried Missy; "don't you see there isn't room for the stage to pass. I tell you to be quiet." Missy had her hands full in managing Jay, and getting the pony out of the road, with his head up into the bushes. This was the only part of the narrow road where they could pass, so she had to draw up on one side, and wait while the heavy stage crawled up the hill. The information was soon telegraphed through the gloomy ranks, which presented a sullen front. The stage was driven by one Moses, who had always driven it since any one could remember. He sat bent up like a bow, with years of long and lazy driving; his hat pushed a little back on his head. He nodded indifferently to Missy. It was all he did to any one, so no one could complain. Beside him sat LÉon, dark and scowling; behind them sat Michael, red and wrathful; behind him again, the dismissed cook, laundress, nurse, and last of all, Alphonsine. It was the wreck of a household, indeed. Missy felt a momentary elation when she saw them all together. She had not realized how many there were, before, and to what a complete rout she had put them. It was rather awkward, drawing up by the roadside, and having them all pass in review before her, as it were; but it could not be helped—the condition of a Long Island road never can be helped. A heavy wagon, driven by one of the sons of Moses, the stage-driver, filled with the trunks of the departing servants, crawled on after the stage. The boy was rather rakish-looking; he sat on one of the trunks and smoked a very bad cigar, which he was not at the pains to remove from his mouth when he approached the lady. She glanced quickly at the trunks, and a wandering wish passed through her mind that she might see the inside of them, and estimate roughly the degree to which the master had been plundered. She cast her eyes down after this, or only allowed them to rest on her pony, who did not like being crowded up into the bushes, and did not stand quite still. It is very possible that all might have gone well, if Jay could have behaved himself decently; but his old wrath returned when he saw Michael, and saw him from a friend's side.

"Hurrah!" he shouted, getting on his feet on the seat. "Hurrah! You have got sent away, and it was because you got drunk, and was bad yesterday, and I am glad of it, I am."

Michael was too angry and too much the worse for the last night's revel, to control himself. "You little devil," he cried, and shook his fist at the boy.

Even then, if the boy could have been subdued, it is possible that the habit of decent silence before their betters, would have kept them all quiet till they were out of hearing of the party in the pony carriage. They all knew or suspected that Missy was their enemy, but she was dignified, and no word had ever broken their habit of respect to her. She flushed up and tried to keep Jay quiet, and did not look towards the stage, now floundering through the sand alongside. But she had also the pony to keep under, and he required both hands. Jay did not like to be called a little devil, and there was no one to stop him, except by counsel, which he did not ever much regard; he made a dash with the whip, and lurching forward, struck towards Michael with all his small might. The end of the lash, fine and stinging, reached that person's red, and sun-scorched cheek.

"I'll teach you to call me little devil," cried Jay, as he dealt the blow.

A howl of rage escaped the man, though it must have hurt him very little. He made a spring for Jay. The stage was going so slowly it was not difficult for him to leap from it and land beside the little carriage. Moses pulled up, much interested. Moses' son, behind, pulled up, interested quite as much. Michael caught the boy with a fierce hand. Missy leaned forward, exclaiming, "Don't touch the child. I forbid you. Don't touch him, unless you want to get yourself in trouble!"

A chorus of indignation burst from the crew in the stage. Michael, backed by this, shook the child fiercely in her very lap, boxed his ears, with one brutal hand after the other, and then hurled him back upon her, and swung himself into the stage again. A shower of coarse and horrid words assailed poor Missy's ears, as she caught him in her disengaged arm. It had never been her luck before to be assailed by an Irish tongue, loosed from the decency of servitude. She had never had "words" with any of her mother's servants. This was quite a new experience. She was white to her fingers' ends. Jay did not cry. He was white too. Not cowed, but overpowered by brute strength, and stunned by the blows he had got. Missy never knew exactly what they said; some horrid words always stuck in her memory, but it was all a confused hideous jumble besides. The women's tongues were the worst, their voices the shrillest, the things they said the ones that stuck in the memory most. Moses was so interested he sat open-mouthed and gazed and listened. His son, infinitely delighted, gazed and listened too. At last, Missy found voice to say, above the general babel:

"Moses, will you drive on, and let me pass? You will lose the train if you don't go at once."

This recalled to him the fact that he had the mail-bag at his feet, and losing the train meant losing the patronage of the Government of the United States.

"By Jingo, that's a fact!" said Moses, gathering up the reins, and calling out "gee-up" to the lean horses, who had been very glad to rest. The stage lumbered on, and left the pony-carriage free to move, after the baggage-wagon should have passed. But the baggage-wagon was driven by Moses' son, and he had no desire to shorten or renounce the fun. He did not carry the United States mail. He was probably not unfamiliar with Billingsgate, and was not shocked, only pleasantly excited, by the language employed. He even hurrahed a little, and laughed, and struck his hands upon his knees, as Jay was pitched back into the carriage, white and silenced. He liked a fight exceedingly, he did—any kind of a fight.

As the stage moved on, and the viragoes leaned back and shook their fists at the little carriage, and the two men roared back their imprecations at it, he had not the heart to move on, and let the pony out into the road. He knew how the little beast would dash away out of sight down the hill, under Miss Rothermel's whip; they would be out of hearing in a second. No, he couldn't do a thing like that. It wasn't in him to spoil a fight. He laughed, and threw himself astride of the trunk, but didn't touch the reins, and didn't stir a step aside from blocking up the road. So it was that Missy got the full force of the parting maledictions; so it was that she got the full tide of Irish, mixed with the finer-grained shafts of French invective; so it was that she knew that Alphonsine had read the little note that she had sent in that morning to the relenting master, and that she was assured that she had made an enemy for life.

"We'll be aven wid ye yet!" cried Bridget.

"Mademoiselle shall hear from the 'worst of them all' again," sneered Alphonsine, darting a malignant look at her, from under her dark brows.

Then, and not till then, did the young driver of the luggage-wagon "gee-up" to his horses and move on, puffing the smoke from his villainous cigar into the faces of the pony-carriage party, as he passed them, and looking infinitely content as he jolted on. He was not aware that he had done anything insolent or malicious. He did not know that the smell of his cigar, and the keen amusement of his look, had been the last, and perhaps most cutting, of the insults she had received. These wretches who had just disappeared from her presence were strangers and foreigners, so to speak; but this low boy represented her home, her village, her place of influence. Poor Missy! that was a bitter hour. Her vaudeville was ending in a horrid rout and rabble; she was sore and sick with the recollection of it. She had been dragged through the mud on the field where she had felt sure of triumph. What was the triumph, compared to the mud? She had succeeded in having them sent away; but they had humiliated her, oh! most unspeakably. The degradation of having to listen to such words, and to sit, impotent and silent before them, while they raged and reviled her!

The pony dashed down the hill. They were out of sight of the place of their defeat in a moment of time; but she felt as if never, never could she get out of sight of their leering faces, out of hearing of their horrid words.

When they were at the bottom of the hill and had turned into the main road, Jay began to recover from the shock and fright, and to tremble and cry. Gabrielle never took her eyes off Missy's face; she was full of speculation, but such experiences were not as new to her as to Missy. She, however, remembered, almost as well as Missy did, all those insolent words, and, though not understanding them fully, kept them in mind, and interpreted them in the light of events.

"Don't cry, Jay," Missy said mechanically. But she was so shaken she could scarcely speak. She wanted to get home and think it over; to get out of day-light, to get breath and recover her voice again, and her self-respect, her power of feeling herself a lady.

Jay's continued crying tortured her; Gabby's eyes on her face angered her. She was trembling all over. She had not made up her mind about anything, only that everything was horrid and degrading, and that she wished she had never seen or heard of any of the name of Andrews—even little Jay.

As they approached the gate she saw that Mr. Andrews was walking slowly up and down before his house, evidently watching for them. She tried to drive quickly and pass him with a bow, but he came up beside them as they passed through the gate, and she had to pull up the pony and go slowly. He walked beside the carriage and took Jay's hand, which was stretched out to him.

"Well, I've got them all off," he said, with a sigh of relief.

"We saw 'em all," cried Gabby, always glad to impart information. "We saw 'em all; and, oh, such a time as we have had!"

"Michael beat me, and beat me," burst out Jay, quite broken down at the thought of being sympathized with.

"And, oh, the things they said to Missy!" exclaimed Gabby.

"And he called me a little devil, and I'll kill him!" cried Jay, beginning to sob.

While these side-lights were being thrown upon the occurrence, Mr. Andrews looked anxiously at Missy, who was growing red and white, and trembling very visibly.

"Be silent, children," he said impatiently. "You have had some trouble, Miss Rothermel, I am afraid."

By this time they had reached the house; Missy threw down the reins, which Mr. Andrews caught.

"I hope nothing has happened to distress you," he said.

She did not wait to give Jay to his father, but getting out very quickly, and not noticing the hand that he offered her, said, in a voice not very steady, "I don't want to talk about it. It makes me ill to think of it. Call Peters, won't you, to take away the pony," ran up the steps and disappeared into the house. In another minute she would have cried.

He took the children out and drove the pony up to the stable. The children followed him, and he spent half an hour with them on the beach, trying to extract from them the history of the morning. It was rather difficult to get at the facts, but he got at enough to make him feel much disturbed in mind. The servant soon came down to take the children in to dinner, and to ask him to come in, too. But this he declined, wisely judging that his presence would not be very welcome now. He went back to his empty house, put the key in his pocket, and drove down to the village inn to get something to eat.

Late in the afternoon he went back to Mrs. Varian's, to ask for the counsel which had been before so freely offered him. He felt quite helpless, and could not move a step in reconstructing his household till he had been told what to do. The afternoon was quite clear, and since the sun had set, the fire on the hearth in the library looked very cheerful. The servant let him into that room. There he found the children playing together a game of checkers, and Goneril watching them. Ann went up-stairs to summon Miss Rothermel, but returned presently to say that Miss Rothermel was lying down with a severe headache, and begged that Mr. Andrews would excuse her. Miss Varian, who was in the adjoining parlor, dozing in a big arm-chair, roused at the sound of voices, and called to Goneril to come and lead her into the library. It was always an amusement to have a visitor, and she asked Mr. Andrews to sit down again, which he was very ready to do—his own house at present being a very uncheerful place to sit down in. She chatted briskly with him, and praised the children liberally. This surprised the children, who stopped their game to listen. They were much more used to hearing themselves scolded by Miss Varian. Then she came to the condition of his household, and asked him many questions. He was obliged to be very frank, and to tell her that he had sent the servants all away, according to Miss Rothermel's advice, and that now he was waiting further orders.

"Well, it's too bad," cried Miss Varian, with a laugh. "Missy has got you into this fix, and she's bound to help you out of it. I won't hear to her going to bed, and leaving you to starve. Why, what a predicament you're in! Where did you get your dinner?"

Mr. Andrews said he had had a very fair meal at the hotel, and seemed anxious to make the best of his position. "But who milks the cows, and takes care of things at the stable? Horses can't be locked up like chairs and tables."

"Oh!" answered Mr. Andrews, "Peters has found a very decent man for me. I feel quite satisfied about the horses and cows; and if it were not for imposing these children upon you, I should not be in any trouble about the house. It's more comfortable now than it has been for some time, I assure you."

"All the same," said Miss Varian, "there is no sense in your being kept in this unsettled state, just because Missy chooses to set up a headache. It's a new thing for her; she isn't the kind of young woman that goes to bed with a headache whenever she's put out. It's a wonder to me what has happened to disturb her. She was well enough at breakfast, but wouldn't come down to her dinner. I never knew her to stay away from dinner for a headache, or any such nonsense before. Goneril shall go up and see why she can't come down."

"I beg you won't take any trouble about it," said Mr. Andrews, much disturbed. "I am sure she is ill, she looked very pale. I would not have her annoyed for anything. If it is not asking too much of you all, to bear with the children, I will try to get some kind of a household together to-morrow. I have no doubt I could hear of some one in the village, or I could go to the city in the morning and get some at an office."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Miss Varian, fervently. "That would break Missy's heart, for she has been longing to get these creatures away. And you wouldn't be likely to get any better. You know men are always imposed upon."

"That is true," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh.

"Missy went to see about a cook this morning," put in Gabrielle, who had renounced her game and crept up to hear the talking. "And a waitress too. She said she had heard of a place for them, but she didn't say where. Maybe it was for you, papa."

"Maybe," said her father, absently.

"Alphonsine said in the stage this morning that she seemed to take a great interest in your affairs, you know."

"Hush!" said her father, with emphasis.

"How's that? Who's Alphonsine? Your nurse? And what did she say?" asked Miss Varian, with keen interest.

"Some impertinence of the servants after they were sent away, I suppose," said Mr. Andrews, threatening Gabrielle with a look.

"Did Missy hear it?" asked Miss Varian, persisting.

"Papa says I mustn't tell," returned Gabrielle, hesitating.

"Oh," said Miss Varian, sharply. "It is always well to obey one's father."

"Gabrielle makes a great deal out of a very little," said Mr. Andrews, suppressing his annoyance. "She has had the misfortune to be a great deal thrown upon the care of servants. I shall be glad to get her into different ways."

"She ought to be sent to boarding-school," said Miss Varian.

"I am afraid you are right; I must look about for a school for her in the course of the next few months."

Gabrielle gave Miss Varian a very bitter look, but Miss Varian was none the worse for that. Mr. Andrews now arose to go, but Miss Varian protested he should not go till Missy had sent down the addresses of the persons she had recommended.

"I won't have you kept in such a state for anybody's caprice," she said, sending Goneril up with a message. And then Mr. Andrews knew that Miss Varian did not love her step-niece.

"Missy is very fond of managing," she said. "She must understand she can't lay down the reins whenever she chooses. She must carry out what she undertakes."

Goneril was gone a very long time, it seemed to Mr. Andrews; he really thought he was having a great deal of petticoat government. If it were not for the two children, he would have got clear of the whole sex, he thought. He would have taken bachelor apartments, and had not even a chamber-maid. He would have gone to a club for his meals, and not have spoken to a woman from year's end to year's end. But there was poor little Jay, with his tawny hair all unkempt, and his saucy sister with her sash ends in a tangle; for their sakes he must be grateful to these kind and dictatorial friends. Certainly he could not do without women while he had those two to care for. He must get used to women, he supposed; get to be half a woman himself; learn how to keep house; be a perfect Betty. He groaned, patiently, while Miss Varian kept up a brisk talk about his matters.

At last Goneril came back. Goneril was much interested in his matters too. She was so much interested, and so zealous, that he was quite abashed. He wondered how many more women would be needed to put his affairs en train. Goneril was a very tall, well-built woman, with an energetic tread. She had her own views on most matters, and was not withheld from uttering them by any false delicacy about a menial position. Wasn't she the daughter of an American farmer? So, when she came down to deliver Miss Rothermel's message, she added many of her own observations to the message, and quite bewildered Mr. Andrews. He did not know which was the original text, and which the comment on it; and Miss Varian's cross-fire did not render matters simpler.

"Here's the names of the persons Miss Rothermel was speaking of," Goneril said, giving him the paper; "and the places where you'll find 'em. But my opinion is, you'll have your trouble for your pains, if you go hunting up Melinda Larkins. She'll never come to you. She won't undertake to live in a family where there isn't anybody to look after things. Things go wrong in every house, more or less; but where there's only Help, the troubles are laid to the wrong door, and you never know what you'll be accused of."

"That is," said Miss Varian, sharply, "bad as a mistress is, it's worse without a mistress."

"I don't know anything about mistresses," retorted Goneril, with a toss of the head. "People that you live with may call themselves anything they like. That don't make 'em so. They might call themselves em-presses and prin-cesses, but it wouldn't make 'em so."

"And servants might call themselves Help, but that wouldn't make them so. As long as they draw their wages for the work they do, they are servants, and nothing more nor less than servants."

Poor Mr. Andrews felt as if he had got into a very hot fire, and as if, somehow, he were guilty of having lighted it.

"I ought to be going to see about these—persons—I suppose; if I can get them to-night it will be all the better," he said, rising, while the discussion about titles was still raging.

"Well, you won't get anybody on such short notice that's worth having," Goneril interrupted herself to say. "Melinda Larkins wouldn't think of taking a place, without going over to the island to see her folks about it. She has some self-respect, if she is obliged to live out."

"If she is obliged to go into service, you mean," said Miss Varian. "There won't be much difficulty about your getting her, Mr. Andrews, I am sure. All these people are very poor, and will do anything for money."

"Money isn't everything," began Goneril; but Mr. Andrews had got to the hall.

"I can but go and see about them," he said, as he made his bow.

He heard a rage of tongues as he closed the door. He felt as if the flames were shooting out after him and scorching his very eyebrows.

He drew a long breath when he was out of hearing of the house, and under the trees in the night air. What bliss a world without women would be. Here he was embroiled with three, after his brave fight of the morning too, which should have won him their applause. There was no pleasing them, and their tongues—their tongues. Pleased or displeased, he asked nothing better than to get away from them. He thought for a rash moment that he would steal Jay and go away with him to some monastery, and leave Gabby to her fate. But, poor little Gabby, he was sorry for her, even if she did love to impart information and to make mischief. Yes, he must stay by them, poor little mites, and try to help them out of their dismal plight. So he went to the stable, and saddled his horse, and threw a severe order or two to the decent man, of whom he was not afraid.

Then he rode into the jaws of fate, to see Melinda Larkins, who couldn't make up her mind in a minute; to see the one proposed as nursery maid, who wasn't in; to see the waitress, who asked him a great many questions that he couldn't answer. "What part of the wash would be hers? What evening could she have? Who was to get tea Sunday when the cook was out? Was there to be a regular dinner for the children in the middle of the day, and a regular dinner again at night?"

To all these questions, and many more as puzzling, Mr. Andrews could give no well considered answer. He felt the necessity of appearing to know a little about the ordering of his household; his dealings with men had taught him that ignorance is fatal to authority, and strangely and sadly as the sexes differed, there must be some general points of resemblance. It would not do to let this trim young creature, with her black eyes and her white apron, respectful as yet, standing at the gate in an attitude of attention, know that he had never known who did the wash in his house, or whether there was a regular dinner in the middle of the day, or whether the cook ever went out, or how many evenings belonged to the waitress. He said rather lamely that he had only come to see if she were disengaged; he had not time to talk these details over. If she were at liberty, she might come the next morning at ten, and he would make final arrangements with her.

She respectfully consented to this, but it is highly probable that she saw through the maneuver, and knew that "time" was what her future master wanted, and that there was a good deal in her catechism that was new to him. He knew, or feared this knowledge on her part, and went slowly away on his milk-white steed, much humbled and perplexed.

The decent man took his horse and cared for it, but he let himself into the house with a feeling of his helplessness. He had matches, thanks to being a smoker, but he did not know how to fill a lamp, and of course all the lamps were empty. Every one knows that a candle does not give a cheerful light in a wide room. So he tried two candles, but they blinked at each other feebly, they were almost worse than one. It was almost impossible to read the evening paper; he would conclude it was time to go to bed. So he poured himself out a glass of wine, not having the heart (or the chance) to eat a meal, and went up-stairs. His bed had not been made; there was no water in the pitchers. The windows had been closed, and the room was not fresh. He made up his mind that he could not sleep there; he went into another room, entering into a calculation how many nights the beds would last, and when he should have to take to the sofas.

Another day dawned on this anarchy. He had no hot water for his shaving; he did not know where fresh towels were, the keys of the closets being all at the bottom of the cistern. (A parting shot of malice from Alphonsine, though he did not know it.) After a wretched bath, with towels in which he had no confidence, he went out into the damp morning, and getting on his horse, went down to the village barber, and then to the village inn for breakfast.

"This thing must not go on any longer," he said with firmness—but what use was there in being firm? He was helpless. What part of the wash did the waitress do? And what would bring Melinda Larkins to decision? And what questions would the nursery-maid elect be likely to ask him? He ground his teeth. A plague upon them all. He had made a fortune and lost it with less rack of brain than this business had occasioned him. If Miss Rothermel only would get over her little temper and come forward to the rescue. He couldn't blame her for being so indignant, but she needn't have vented it on him, who was not in the least to blame. There was the waitress coming at ten, and he had no answers to give her to her questions. He had not the face to go to the Varians' house again, indeed, he had not the courage, for Miss Varian and her iron maid were more likely to confront him than Missy was, who mightn't yet be through with her headache.

He rode slowly back from the village after breakfast, reflecting deeply. As he turned into the stable, he saw the welcome sight of Missy, in her shade-hat, going into the greenhouse, with a basket and some scissors. If he could only get her to talk to him for five minutes, all might be got into right shape. But what sort of a humor was she in? She had not the children with her—that was a bad sign. The dampness of the early morning had passed away, and the sun had come out bright, though the dew was thick on the grass. He hurried across the lawn and entered the garden. Missy was busy at the door of the greenhouse, with a vine that seemed not to meet her approbation. Her basket stood at her feet, half-full of the late blooming flowers that she had picked in the garden as she came along.

"Good morning, Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews, rather irresolutely, pausing behind her. She had not heard his approach, and started. He felt that it was unwarrantable, his coming in this way into the garden; but starvation and perplexity and want of shaving-water will drive a man to almost anything. If he had gone to the house she would have refused to see him. If she refused to speak to him now, he should simply hang himself. She looked quite haughty as she faced him; but he looked so troubled and so humbled, it was impossible to be haughty long.

"I hope you'll excuse my coming to bother you again," he said; "but upon my word, I don't know how I am going to get my matters straight without some help from you. I know it is quite unjustifiable, and you have quite a right to tell me so."

"No," said Missy, with rigid honesty, "I offered you my advice. I remember that quite well. I have only myself to blame if you give me any trouble."

"And I am sure I needn't tell you how very sorry I am about the occurrence of yesterday. I would have done anything to have saved you that annoyance."

But Mr. Andrews saw that he'd better have left the subject alone. All the softening vanished from her expression.

"No one was to blame for that," she said. "It need never be thought of again." But it was evident the recollection of it had put her back into her armor.

Mr. Andrews felt a momentary indignation at her injustice; but his straits were too sore for him to cherish indignation. "If it were not for the children," he said, "I would close the house at once, and go away. Gabrielle would be better off perhaps at boarding-school; but Jay is such a baby. Still, I suppose that might not be a difficulty."

"He does seem rather young to send among strangers," she replied coldly, snipping down a fading branch of the climbing rose, and throwing it aside.

"But on some accounts, as I was saying to you the other day, I would much prefer keeping them together, and having them with me for the present."

"It would be pleasanter, perhaps," said Miss Rothermel, with distant but faint interest.

"What I want to ask you," he went on desperately, "is whether you think a household could be kept together, with any comfort or profit to the children, without any greater knowledge and experience on my part. I mean," he said confusedly, "could they get on without a governess, or a housekeeper, or some one to be at the head of affairs? Could three or four women get on, that is, without some one in authority over them?"

"Why, what is to prevent you from being in authority over them?" said Missy, almost contemptuously. "That is, if you are willing to take the trouble of thinking about things."

"I am very willing to think about things, but I am sorry to say I am so ignorant that my thoughts are not likely to be profitable."

"Knowledge is power," said Missy, clipping another dry leaf off.

"That is very true, Miss Rothermel," he said, with a smile. "I am sure you feel yours. But be good enough to help me. Tell me, to begin with, what I am to say to the waitress, who is to come to see me in half an hour. She asks me questions that I don't know how to answer."

"Well, what are some of them, pray?"

"Why, as we are not to keep a laundress, what part of the washing she must do?"

"The fine clothes, of course."

"I don't believe we have any fine clothes in the house. I think everything is very plain."

"Oh, that is a technical expression. It means the starched clothes. Say that to her and she'll understand. The cook is to do the coarse washing."

"Ah, yes; I see. Well, she wants to know about dinner—am I to have a regular dinner, and are the children to have a regular dinner in the middle of the day? Now, what does a regular dinner mean when a waitress talks about it? and what ought the children to have for their dinner?"

"Why, it means," said Missy, "are the children to have scraps and a jumbled-up lunch, all on the table together—or, are they to have soup, and a nice steak, and some vegetables, and a pudding, and fare like Christians. I hope you settled that question for her."

"I will settle it, now that I know what she means. Thank you. And what wages is she to have? And who is to serve tea on Sunday nights? And how often must she go out; and when she goes out who is to do her work?"

"Tell her she is to go out every other Sunday, and the cook is to serve tea in her place on that night. And one evening in the week she can go out. And as the nurse will go out on one evening also, she must arrange with her what that evening shall be. And on the nurse's evening out, she must sit up stairs and look after the children."

"Thank you. That looks plainer. I believe it was all she asked me. If I see the woman you thought might do for nurse, what questions will she be likely to ask me?"

"Why, I don't know; but you must be prepared to say, she is to do all the mending, and take the entire charge of the children, and of their clothes. And besides must teach them their letters and spelling every day for an hour, and must assist in waiting on them at their meals, for Jay needs some one every moment. But she is a sensible girl, and I am sure you will have no trouble with her. She won't be likely to ask you many questions."

"I am glad of that," said Mr. Andrews, growing lighter-hearted. "There is one thing more. You feel certain, Miss Rothermel, that three women can do the work? You know there have hitherto been five—"

Miss Rothermel looked contemptuous again. "That depends," she said, "entirely upon your wishes. Three women are all you need. You might have eight, but I don't think they'd add to your comfort."

"I am sure you are right," he said, apologetically. "All I mean is, will they be coming to me every day or two and saying they have too much to do, and excusing themselves in that manner for neglecting their work?"

"That depends, again, upon what you say to them, if they do come. If you never give in to any demands for more wages, and make them fully understand that you mean to keep three servants in the house and no more, you will not have any trouble. It will be an easy place; they will be very glad to stay. These three that I have told you of, are all good servants. I don't see any reason that Jay—that you all—I mean—shouldn't be quite comfortable."

Mr. Andrews knew very well that all her solicitude was for Jay. He did not care, however. He was willing to get comfort, even over his son's shoulder.

"I can't tell you how much obliged to you I am," he said. "Your aunt's maid has rather frightened me about my cook elect. Do you think there will be any difficulty in getting her to consent to come?"

"I don't know why there should be."

"Perhaps, if you would say a word to her, she might be influenced."

Missy grew lofty at once. She had evidently washed her hands of the matter.

"I don't know anything to say to her to induce her to come if she is not induced by the prospect of a good home and good wages. She will probably come."

"And the nurse; is she not a sort of protegÉe of yours? Perhaps if you would kindly give her some idea of her duties it might help her."

This Mr. Andrews said maliciously, for he had a man's contempt for caprice, and he could see nothing but caprice in Miss Rothermel's washing her hands of his affairs. Two days ago she had advised him, urged him, made up his cabinet for him. And now she only tolerated an allusion to the subject. It was not his fault that the servants she had made him send away had been saucy to her. He was not inclined to submit to such airs (now that he had got his questions answered and there was a reasonable prospect of hot water and clean towels).

"She is not a protegÉe of mine at all," returned Missy. "All I know about her, however, is in her favor. She will, I think, take good care of the children. She will take her instructions best from you, and she has intelligence enough to fill up details of which you are ignorant necessarily."

Mr. Andrews bowed, and Missy filled up the gap in the conversation by snipping off some more dead leaves. There seemed really nothing for him to do but to go away, and he was just preparing to do this when the children rushed upon the scene. Jay pounced upon Missy, and nearly threw her down; she looked slight and small, stretching up her arm to a high branch of the vine, and the little ruffian probably felt his superiority and used it.

"You are a naughty boy," she said, picking up her hat and the scissors which he had thrown to the ground, but she did not say it very severely.

"Why did you go away without me?" he said, kicking at her glove, which lay upon the gravel walk.

"Because I didn't want you," she returned.

Gabrielle had crept up to her father, and was eying Missy and Jay with sidelong observation. "Jay said something very bad this morning," she said, including her father in her circuitous glance. Her father naturally felt suspicious of Gabrielle's information; it was generally of a nature far from pleasing. He therefore passed over her remark without notice, and putting out his hand to Jay, said, "Well, you haven't spoken to me this morning. I think you have forgotten that you haven't seen me."

"Holloa! how are you?" cried Jay, catching at his father's hand with both his, and trying to climb up his leg. His hat fell off in the exertion, and his yellow hair, fresh from Goneril's brushing, blew about in the breeze.

"He said he didn't want to go home to you, papa," persisted Gabrielle.

"He didn't! there's affection for you," said the father, carelessly, with both hands now holding the boy, who chose to walk up him.

"He said—" and now Missy began to tremble. "He said he wouldn't go away from Missy."

"Thank you, Jay," said Missy, looking at the boy with a bright smile, and some relief. "They'd better let you stay with me if that's the way you feel."

"O no," cried the little viper, "we couldn't spare Jay. You could do like Alphonsine said you wanted to do, come to our house and live with us, and have things all your own way. You know she said that was what you were working for. Don't you remember, Missy? Just before Moses started up the horses."

Jay had made the ascent of his father and stood in triumph on his shoulder. Mr. Andrews with a rapid movement put him on the ground, made a step forward and brought his hand with force on Gabrielle's cheek, a hard stinging blow that made the child scream with pain and amazement, for he had never struck her before.

"Never repeat to me the words of servants," he said, in a voice terrible to her, and severe enough in the ears of others, especially little Jay, who looked awe-struck. There was a seat outside the greenhouse door, and on this Missy had sunk down, trembling all over. She opened her lips and tried to speak, but literally she could not, the sudden agitation had taken away her voice. Meanwhile Gabrielle had found hers, and was crying passionately, very angry at the blow, and very sure too, that crying was the way to get the better of her father. But this time she was mistaken. He took her hand almost roughly.

"Come with me," he said. "I have something more to teach you."

His voice was rather unsteady from anger, his face flushed, and his eye stern. No wonder Gabrielle's cry sank into a frightened whimper, as she followed, or was half dragged away by her father. Jay ran up to Missy, and tried to climb into her lap. With an impulse that the poor little fellow could not understand, of course, she pushed him away. It was the first repulse he had ever had from her: though he was still in petticoats, his pride and wounded affection were strong; he would not wait for a second rebuff. He started down the path, crying, Papa. Missy saw him overtake his father as he crossed the lawn, and cling to his hand, hardly able to keep up with his rapid walk. And so, with a child in each hand, he passed out of the gate and disappeared from Missy's sight.

She sat still for a few minutes, and tried to collect her thoughts. She felt as if some one had given her a blow on her ear, and sent all the blood tingling to her brain. Finally she got up, picked up Jay's hat, which he had left on the field, and the scissors, and the basket, which had been overturned in the mÊlÉe. She put the flowers back into it, angry and ashamed to see how her hand shook, and shutting the greenhouse door, slowly went out of the garden. Where should she go to get away from every one, and be by herself for a little while? If she went to the beach, hither the children might come in a few moments. If to the lawn, she was a fair mark for visitors and servants, and the walk through the cedars would bring all back—the interview there three days ago, whence all her troubles dated. Her own room was the best place for her.

She put down the flowers in the hall, and went up stairs under a running fire from Goneril, Aunt Harriet and her mother, dispersed about the lower rooms and hall.

It is astonishing how much unnecessary talking is done in a house, how many useless questions asked, how many senseless observations made. Just be very unhappy, overstrained or anxious, and you will find out how many idle words are spoken in an hour, if you happen to be bearing your burden among happy, unstrained, and careless people.

It seemed to Missy, calling out her answers in as brave a voice as she could, going through the house, that never were questions so useless, observations so senseless.

"Where are you going?" was among the last of her mother's.

"To my room; and don't let me be disturbed, please. I want to be quiet for awhile."

"Another headache?" cried Aunt Harriet from the hall below. "Really, this is becoming serious. I never knew you were capable of headaches."

"Thank you," said Missy, shutting her door and sliding the bolt. She sat down in a chair by the window and gazed out; but she did not see the soft velvet of the lawn, nor the blue dimples of the bay against which the great trunks of the trees stood out.

There were some sails flitting about in the fresh wind, but she did not see them. She was trying to collect her thoughts and get over that blow on the ear that she felt as if she had had. It was new to her not to go to her mother and confide her trouble; but this was a sort of humiliation she could not bring herself to talk about. She excused herself by saying it would only distress mamma. It would have distressed mamma's daughter so much to have given words to it that she never even allowed to herself that it might be a duty. It was all a punishment, she said to herself, for having received on terms of kindness a man who had behaved so to his wife; that was a breach of friendship. It was something to bear in silence, to be hushed up, and forgotten, if it could be, even by herself. She wished that she might go away.

She got up and walked across the room—impulsively. Then sat down again, with the bitter reflection that it was only men who could go away. Women have to sit down and bear their disappointments, their mortifications, their defeats; to sit down in the sight of them and forget them if they can. Men can pack their tender sensibilities into their valises, and go off and see that the world is wide, and contains other subjects of thought and interest than the ones they have been brooding over.

Go away! No indeed; she laughed bitterly when she thought of the commotion that would result from the mentioning such a plan. St. John might walk in any day, and say he was going on a journey. No one would question his right to go, or his right to decline giving any reasons for so going. He was seven years younger than she was, but he was free. She must account for all her goings, her doings; even the people in the village would sit in judgment on her, if she did anything that was not clearly explained to them and proved expedient. No—she was tied, bound to Yellowcoats. All their plans were laid to remain at home for the winter.

Since St. John had come to the parish, they had decided it was unnecessary to make their annual change; Missy had not cared for the winter in town, Mrs. Varian had been glad to be let off from it, Aunt Harriet had submitted to give it up. So here she was to stay, and here it was possible the Andrews' would stay, and here she must daily see the children and pass the house, and be reminded that she had been insulted, and had been a fool. It would be the village talk. All her past dignity and her grand disdain of lovers would pass for nothing. She had never entered the lists with other young women; she had prided herself on her determination not to marry. "I am not in commission," she would say loftily to the younger girls, making the most of her age.

The few suitors who, so far, had come to her, had been detestable to her. She did not deserve much credit for rejecting them, but she took a good deal to herself, feeling sure that she would, in the same way, have discarded princes. Of course, she had had her dreams about true love, but she had early decided that that was not to come to her, and that she had a different sort of life to live. Being very fond of plans and arrangements of all kinds, it was a great satisfaction to her to feel she was building up the sort of life that she was intended for, that she was daily adding to its usefulness and symmetry. My will be done, she was saying, unconsciously, in her daily thought, if not in her morning and evening prayer. Yes, it was a very beautiful, a very noble life she was constructing, very devoid of self, she thought. She was living for others; was not that fine? She was quite above the petty ambitions and humiliations of her sex. She did not mean to marry, in deference to the world's opinion, or in terror of its scorn. All the same, she knew very well people held her very high, and were not ignorant that she could have married well if she had chosen. She did not think that this was of any importance to her, till she found what pain it gave her to think that people would now be of a different mind. Had it come to this, that it could be said she was only too ready to fall into the arms of a month-old widower, stout and elderly! Yes, that was what the people in the village—the gentlemen going down in the cars, the ladies in their morning drives—would say. The scene with the stage load of servants would be in possession of all these by to-morrow, if it were not so to-day. She knew the ability of Yellowcoats to absorb news, as a sponge absorbs water;—it would look very fair and dry, but touch it, squeeze it, ah, bah. Yellowcoats could take in anything, from the smallest detail to the most exaggerated improbability. She had spent her life in Yellowcoats, and she knew it. From highest to lowest it craved a sensation, and would sacrifice its best and choicest to fill up the gaping vacancy. She knew how good the story was, she knew how much foundation it seemed to have. What could she ever do to contradict it? Nothing. No word of it would ever reach her ears. She would be treated with the old deference, but she would know the laugh that underlaid it. She had no chance of contradicting what no one would say to her. And in action, what could she do? If she refused ever to see the children again, declined abruptly all intercourse with their neighbors, it would only be said, with more emphasis than ever, that she had met with sudden discouragement; that the gentleman had become alarmed at her ardent interest in his household matters, and had withdrawn abruptly from even ordinary civilities. If she still went on as before, appearing daily with the children in the carriage, taking them to church with her, it would be said she was still pursuing the chase, was still cherishing hopes of promotion. Whatever she did, it was all one. She couldn't publish a card in the paper, she couldn't go about and tell people they had been misinformed, when they didn't acknowledge to any information at all. The only thing she could do was to marry some one else out of hand, and that she felt she was almost prepared to do, if any one else were to be had on a moment's notice. But all her few men were dead men, and there was not a new one to be had for the wishing.

It was surely a very trying situation, and Missy shed bitter tears about it, and felt she hated, hated, hated this strange widower, whom she persisted in calling stout and elderly, as if that were the worst thing that a man could be. She knew him so slightly, she hated him so deeply. What business had he to humiliate her so? Though, to do him justice, it had not been his fault; he had only been the instrument of her chastisement. These tantalizing thoughts were interrupted, in the course of an hour, by Ann, bringing her a letter. Missy sat down to read it, knowing it was from Mr. Andrews.

"It seems fated," he wrote, "that you are to suffer for your kindness to my children. It is needless for me to tell you how much mortification I feel on account of my little girl's misconduct. I am sure your kind heart has already made many excuses for her, and has divined how great my chagrin is at finding her capable of such wrong dispositions. I have to remind myself very often that her life has been what it has, through no fault of hers, else I might feel harshly towards her. I know very well that you will agree with me that it is best that the children should trespass no more on your hospitality, after the return that they have made. I have put them into the nursery. The servant who has to come to see me this morning, has engaged to return to me in an hour's time. I have no doubt she will be capable of taking care of them till I can secure the nurse and cook. At any rate, it is but just that you should be free from them, and I beg you will have no further thought about the matter, except to believe that I am deeply sorry for the annoyance that your generosity has brought upon you.

"Always faithfully yours,

"James Andrews."

Missy's first feeling after reading this was, that he had at least behaved well about it, and had put things in the best shape for her. It was the better way surely, for the children to stay away altogether now. She felt she could not bear the sight of Gabrielle, and the chance of having to meet Mr. Andrews himself was insupportable. Yes, it was the best way, and she hoped that they might never, never cross each other's paths again.

Perhaps he would close the house and go away. She hoped her precious protegÉes would not give him satisfaction, and then he would have to go away. But then came second thoughts, soberer and less hopeful. Was it best for the children to stay at home to-day? How explain to the household, beginning with her mother, this sudden change of base? What would Goneril say, the glib-tongued Ann, and all the rest? It looked like a quarrel, a breach, a sensation. Gabrielle would be questioned over the hedge; the whole story would get out. No; this would never do. The children's clothes were in the drawers of the spare room, their playthings all about the house. The packing these and sending them back so abruptly, would be like a rocket shot into the sky, a signal of sensation to all Yellowcoats.

And then, proving how real her affection for Jay was, there came a feeling of solicitude for him, shut up in that damp nursery. It always had been damp, and she had disapproved it; the worst room in the house, with trees close up to the window, and no sun in it.

The house had been shut up for several days, and in September, that does not do for country houses by the water. The Varians had fire morning and evening, and Jay had been dressed every day since she had had the charge of him, by a bright little blaze of pine and hickory. It would be an hour before the woman came, and what would she get together for their dinner. Some poor baker's bread, perhaps, and some sweetmeats. Jay, poor little man, would be hungry before this time, she was sure. How he was fretting and crying now, no doubt; kicking his little bare legs against the chair.

Missy yearned over him, and she thought, with a pang, how she had pushed him away when he came climbing into her lap. If he were left there, with no one to take proper care of him for two or three days, she knew perfectly well he would be ill. His hands had been a little hot that morning, with all the care that she had given him. To-day was Saturday. It was not likely that the new women could be got into the house before Monday. No, she could not put poor little Jay into all this danger, to save her pride. So, after a good cry, the result of this softened feeling, she wrote the following little note to Mr. Andrews:

"I think you would do better to let the children come back and stay here till Monday. By that time you will no doubt have the servants in the house. When you are ready for them, please send me a few lines and I will send Goneril in with them."

She hoped she had made it plain that he was to keep out of the way, and as he had not merited stupid in addition to stout and elderly, she felt quite confident he would understand. She began several sentences which were meant to imply, from a pinnacle, that she did not blame him for the stings of his little viper, and that no more need be said about it. But none of them satisfied her, and she put the note into the envelope without anything but the bare statement of facts recorded above. Then she took Jay's hat, which she had brought in with her from the garden, and calling Ann, told her to take the note and the hat in to Mr. Andrews.

"The children are there, I think," she added carelessly, in explanation. "Jay ran off without his hat."

She had bathed her eyes before she rang the bell, that Ann might not see she had been crying. By and by Jay came in, accompanied by the new waitress, who explained from her master that Miss Gabrielle was under punishment and was not to have any dinner. She would come back at bedside. Jay looked a little doubtfully at Missy. He had not forgotten his repulse. When the woman had gone out of the door, she said,

"Come Jay, I think we'd better be friends, old fellow," and taking him in her arms, kissed him a dozen times. Jay felt as if a great cloud had lifted off the landscape. Why had everybody been so horrid? There must have been something the matter with people. He gave a great sigh as he sank back in Missy's embrace, but only said, "I want some dinner."