MISRULE.

As to Jay, he was passionate and stubborn, and Missy's heart was broken by a fib he had just told her. The father came home at night, and always, she believed, asked for the children, and when they could be found, and made superficially respectable, they were brought to the table for a little while. But Jay fell asleep sometimes, with his head on the table-cloth, overcome with the long day's play. And Gabby, after she had got a little money out of his pocket, and a little dessert off his plate, preferred the society of the servants, and went away to them. In the morning, they rarely breakfasted with him. They were some times not up, and never dressed in time for that early meal. They took their meals before or after the servants, as those dignitaries found most convenient. Once, poor Jay wandered in hungry and cross at nine o'clock, and told Missy he had had nothing to eat, and that Gabby was dancing for the servants in the kitchen while they ate their breakfast. They made such a noise, Jay said, they made his head ache, and he acknowledged to kicking one of the women who wouldn't go and get him his breakfast, and being put out from the festive scene in disgrace. He ate muffins and omelette on Missy's lap, that morning, but it did not probably make the other mornings any better. No one could advise anything. Mrs. Varian could see no way out of it, and painful as it was, could suggest nothing but patience. It was manifestly not their business to offer any interference. St. John, his sister appealed to in vain. Except the interview on the evening of the wife's death, and the few moments' preceding the funeral services, there had been no communication between them. St. John had called, but Mr. Andrews had been away from the house at the moment. On Sundays, he did not go to church—on week days, he was in the city. St. John told his sister, very truly, it would be impertinence to force himself upon a person so nearly a stranger, and she quite agreed with him. But Jay!

"Why isn't he my child, and why can't I snatch him up and run away with him," she cried, tossing a handful of pebbles into the water and wrapping her cloak closer around her as she walked away from the beach-gate. She could not understand eloping with a man, but with her tawny-haired mannikin she could have consented to fly, she felt.

It was a high September tide; the water was lapping against the wall, the sky was blue, the wind was fresh. It was not yet sunset; she suspected there were visitors in the house; a carriage had driven up to the stable, from which she turned away her head, and which she resolved not to recognize. Hastily following a path that led up to the little wooded eminence that skirted the shore, she concealed her inhospitable thoughts and was out of sight of the house. "I don't really know who they were," she said to herself, when she was safe in the thicket. "So many people have bay horses, and I did not see the coachman. And how could I waste this glorious afternoon in the house? They will amuse Aunt Harriet, and I could not be with mamma if I were entertaining them. I am quite right in making my escape."

The little path was narrow and close; the thicket almost met above her head. It was very still in there; the wind could not get in, and only the sound of the waves, washing on the shore below, could.

she sang in a low voice, as from a little child she had always sung, or thought, as she passed along this tangled path. To be sure, it had the disadvantage of being a low thicket of cedars, instead of a grove deep and high. And the far billow was a near wave, and a small one at that. But she had always had to translate her romance into the vernacular. She had grown up in tame, pastoral green ways, in a home outwardly and inwardly peaceful and unmarked; and her young enthusiasms had had to fit themselves to her surroundings, or she should have been discontented with them. A good deal of imagination helped her in this. She loved the scenes for their own sakes, and for the sake of all the romance with which they were interwoven. A sense of humor even did not interfere. She laughed at herself as she grew older; but she loved the places just as well, and went on calling them by their fictitious names.

Clouds of Michaelmas daisies bordered the path; purple asters crowded up among the dead leaves and underbrush. She liked them all; and the dear old path seemed sweeter and more sheltered to her than ever. Still, she felt a care and an oppression unusual to her; she could not forget little Jay, who was almost always at her side when she walked here. She crossed the little bridge, that spanned what had been a "ravine" to her in younger days; and climbing up the hill, stopped on the top of a sandy cliff, crowned with a few cedars and much underbrush. Here was the blue bay spread out before her; the neck of land and the island that closed in the bay were all in bright autumn yellow and red. Sweet fern and bayberry made the air odorous; the little purplish berries on the cedars even gave out their faint tribute of smell in the clear, pure air. There was a seat in the low branch of a cedar, just on the edge of the bank. Here she sat down and tossed pebbles down the sandy steep, and thought of the perplexing question—how to rescue Jay; and Gabby, too, in parenthesis. Gabby was always in parenthesis, but she was not quite forgotten.

Presently, on the still autumn atmosphere came the faint smell of a cigar. At the same moment, the crashing of a man's tread among the dry underbrush, in the opposite direction from whence she had herself come. Before she had time to speculate on the subject, Mr. Andrews stood before her, coming abruptly out of the thicket. He was as much surprised as she, and perhaps no better pleased. It was impossible for either to be unconscious of the last interview they had had just one month ago. Mr. Andrews' complexion grew a little darker, which was an indication that he was embarrassed, perhaps to find he was on the Varian's land; perhaps that he was confronting a young woman who did not approve of him; perhaps that he was confronting any young woman at all. Who knows—these middle-aged men with thick skins may have sensibilities of which no one dreams, and of which no one is desired to dream.

Miss Rothermel's ordinarily colorless cheeks were quite in a flame. She half rose from her cedar seat, and then irresolutely sat down again. Mr. Andrews threw away his cigar down the sand bank, and without looking irresolute, possibly felt so, as he paused beside her. Her first word sealed him in his resolution not to raise his hat and pass on, as he would have done in an ordinary place. It was quite in character for her to speak first.

"I didn't know you were in the country to-day," she said with embarrassment. "You do not stay up very often, do you?"

Then she thought she couldn't possibly have chosen a remark more personal and unwise. She did not like him to think she knew his habits, and speculated about them. But here, she had told him the first thing.

"No," he said, "I do not stay up very often. I came home to-day in the noon train to give the children a drive this afternoon; but I found when I reached home, that they had gone off with the servants on a picnic. Perhaps you knew about it? I own I was surprised."

"No," said Missy, flushing more deeply, "I did not know anything about it, till they had gone away, and I disapproved it very much; not that I have any right to approve or disapprove; but I am very fond of Jay—and—and—oh, Mr. Andrews, I wonder if you would think it unpardonable if I said something to you!"

Mr. Andrews may have doubted whether he should think what she had to say very agreeable; but he was too gentlemanly to intimate it. She looked so eager and interested, and it was all about his boy. So he said indefinitely, that she was only too good to the children, and it was impossible for him to think anything she said unpardonable.

Missy, with an underlying conviction that she was doing the precise thing that she had made up her mind not to do—rushed on with a hurried statement of the picnic facts; how Gabby had known the plan for two or three days, and had closely guarded the secret; how provisions had been put over night in the sail-boat, and the champagne carried down in the early dawn; and how dear little Jay, carried away by the tide of excitement, and tutored by the infamous maids, had actually told her a falsehood, and explained to her the night before that she need not look for him in the morning, for he should be in town all day with his papa, who was going to take him to the dentist. Mr. Andrews uttered an exclamation at this last statement, and ground his cane into the ground at the root of the cedar-tree. "Poor little Jay," said Missy, looking ready to cry. "Think what a course of evil he must have been put through to have been induced to say that. Gabrielle I am not surprised at. She isn't truthful. It doesn't seem to be her nature. I—I—didn't mean to say that exactly."

"You needn't mind," said her companion, bitterly. "I am afraid it is the truth."

"But Jay," said Missy, hurriedly, "is so sweet natured, and so clear and honest, I can't think how they could have made him do it. It only shows me how dreadful his temptations are, and how much he must go through when he is at home."

"I don't see how it can be helped," said the father with a sort of groan. "I can't be with them all the time; and if I were perhaps I shouldn't mend the matter. I suppose they must take their chance like others."

"Very well, if you are satisfied," she said stiffly.

"But I am not satisfied," he answered. "I should think I needn't assure you of that. But I feel helpless, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to part with the children just yet, you can understand that, no doubt. And yet I don't see what arrangement I can make to improve their condition at home. You must see it is perplexing."

"Will you let me tell you what to do," cried Missy, eagerly, twisting her fingers together as she spoke.

"Gladly," he returned, looking down at her.

"Turn away every servant in your house." He looked blank and dismayed.

"They are as bad a lot as ever were brought together," she said. "They are neither honest nor truthful, nor in any sense respectable. There is not one of them that is worth trying to reform. I don't wonder you are dismayed at the thought of change. Men do not know anything about such things, naturally; take my word for it, you cannot keep them without danger to your property, let alone your children."

"Are they worse than servants generally?" he said, helplessly. "I thought they were always dishonest; mine have always been ever since I have had a household."

"And we," said Missy, "have never had a dishonest servant in our house a week."

"You have been very fortunate then."

"No," she said; "only we have had common prudence, and have looked after them a little."

"Well," said Mr. Andrews, drawing a deep breath, "if I knew how to go to work, I would get rid of them all. But I don't really know anything about these matters."

"If it were in your business, you would know how to get rid of a dishonest clerk, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, that is a different matter. I could easily deal with the men in this case. But the women—well, really, you see it is uncomfortable. And I don't know how to get rid of them, or where to get any better if I do."

"Oh, that could be easily managed."

"Could it?" he said, earnestly. "Believe me, I would do anything to—to—render the fate of my children less unfortunate."

There was a touch of feeling in his voice that softened Missy.

"I wish you would be resolute about this then, and make the change at once. I could—mamma could tell you, perhaps, of good servants, and how to manage. Believe me, it isn't so hard sending off servants and getting new ones. I wish you were as angry with these as I am. You would not find it hard."

Mr. Andrews smiled a little, but it was faintly, and he looked perplexed.

"If I only knew what to do," he said again. "If you will tell me the way, I will walk in it."

"Well, in the first place," said Missy, nothing loth, "I would take the horses at once and drive over to Eel Creek, where I understand the picnic party are, and capture the children—they may not get home till midnight, for you see the wind is against them, and these men know nothing about sailing. No doubt they meant to be home long before this time, starting so early, but they are not in sight. I have been watching for them. Then bring the children to our house; we will take care of them till matters are settled. Then, you know, when the servants get home, after being detected in such a scrape as this, they can expect nothing but to be dismissed. I am sure they would be much surprised at any other ending of the adventure, and they will take it very quietly."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of them, I believe," said Mr. Andrews, with a smile. "Only I don't exactly know how to go about it. What have they done? What shall I say to them? Is going on a picnic without permission sufficient ground to dismiss them all at once?"

"The champagne is, and the claret—and the chickens—and the deceit—and the children—and the sail-boat!" exclaimed Missy, rather incoherently.

"I suppose you are right," said Mr. Andrews, with a sigh. "They may well be glad to get off without any trouble."

"They may indeed. And if you call them together to-night, and speak severely to them, and tell them to pack their trunks and leave by the noon train to-morrow, they will think they have got off very easily."

"But what shall we do after they are gone?" asked Mr. Andrews, despondently.

"Oh, that is easy enough!" cried Missy, starting up and taking the path back to the house, her companion following her. "Mamma and I will take care of the children for a few days, till you are all settled. And there is an old servant of ours living in the village, who will go to you and take charge of things till you get your servants. She is quite capable—cooks well, and will do everything you need for a little while; and it is easy enough to get a man to look after the horses for a day or two, till you are suited with a coachman. One of the Rogers boys would do very well; they are honest, good people, all of them, and need work just now. They understand horses thoroughly; we had Tom ourselves for awhile. You needn't be afraid of them."

"They couldn't possibly be worse than Michael. I am sure I don't know how to thank you enough. The way really looks quite easy. But how about the new women? where am I to look for them?"

"Well, it depends," said Missy, "on what sort of service you want. Now, to be frank with you, Mr. Andrews, you have just twice as many servants as you need. But maybe you like to have a great many; some people do. I don't, you know. I can't bear to have a servant in the house who has no raison d'Être. Half your servants have no reasonable excuse for being in your house, except that they want your money."

"I always wondered," said Mr. Andrews, humbly, "why we needed so many; but there seemed no way of being comfortable with less."

"You see it is a small house," said Missy; "the work of keeping it in order is not great. And in winter—but I don't suppose you mean to stay in winter?"

"Yes, I mean to stay this winter. I think no place could be better for the children, if I can get the proper people to take care of them."

"Well, then you want to get—first, a cook. I don't suppose you'll have much company?"

"None, probably."

"Then you do not want a very pretentious one. A good plain cook—unless you want a great many entrÉes and great variety."

"Oh, as to that, I am thankful if I get three courses. The present cook began bravely, but has been cutting me down steadily. Yesterday we had no soup, and the day before, boiled rice and raisins for dessert."

"Oh," exclaimed Missy, indignantly, "that is an outrage, indeed! Well, I think if you could be patient under that, you could get along with a plain cook."

"Why must she be a plain cook?"

"Because," said Missy, artlessly, "if she is a plain cook and doesn't understand entrÉes and all that, she will help in the washing, and it would be such a blessing if you did not have to have a fourth woman in the house."

Mr. Andrews looked bewildered, as he opened the gate for her to pass out.

"You see," said Missy, apologetically, "it is such a silly thing to have servants that you don't need. They are in each other's way in a small house. You need a good plain cook, and a waitress, and let these two do the washing and ironing. And then you need a nurse, or a nursery governess, a quiet, nice person, who will do everything for the children, including their mending. And then you need a coachman. And—well, of course you'll know whether it will be comfortable or not when you've tried it for a few weeks. But I am quite sure you will not lack anything that you have now, except disorder."

"I am sure of it," said Mr. Andrews, submissively.

"The most important of all," said Missy, as they crossed the lawn, "is the nurse—and I think I know the very person. I must ask mamma if she does not think she would do very well. She lives a mile or two out of the village; is a well brought up, well-educated girl, quite used to work, and yet quite capable of teaching. She has such a quiet, steady manner. I think her influence over the children would be so good. She manages her own little brothers and sisters well, I have noticed. Besides, she would probably come to you for very little more than the wages of an ordinary servant."

Missy colored after she said this. It seemed quite absurd for her to be economizing for her neighbor; but it was quite an involuntary action of her thrifty mind.

"I beg your pardon," she said, confusedly. "It seems very officious, but you know I can't help thinking it is a pity to spend money without thought. Mamma laughs at me, but I can't help feeling annoyed at seeing a great deal spent to save the trouble of a little thought. That is why people go on multiplying servants, and paying whatever may be asked for wages, because they do not want to give themselves the trouble of thinking and planning about it."

"I think you are quite right," said Mr. Andrews. "And I beg you will not imagine that my household extravagances are with intention. I have always regretted that I could not have things managed differently, but I could not find a way to do it."

This was dangerous ground, and Missy wished herself off it, particularly as it was humbling to find herself on such familiar, counsel-giving terms with this brutal husband; but, in truth, she had been quite carried away by the near prospect of Having Her Own Way. She looked a little confused, and was silent as they walked along. It did not seem to be unnatural or uncomfortable to be silent with Mr. Andrews, who was essentially a silent man. Just before they reached the house, she gave a last look back towards the bay.

"I do not see them," she said, "they are not yet inside the harbor. I should not wonder if you caught them before they start from Eel Creek. Probably they were all day getting there."

"You are right, and I ought to hurry."

"You know the road to Eel Creek?"

"Well, yes, I think so; I am not quite sure, but probably I can find it. I have a general idea."

"If there is any doubt, take one of our men with you."

"Thank you, that won't be necessary. I will inquire my way. Miss Rothermel, you have been very good—I don't know how I can thank you enough."

"Oh, as to that, don't thank me till you have got the other side of the trouble. Only don't give out—"

"You are afraid of me," he said with a smile. "Well, I acknowledge I am rather a coward, when it comes to the management of maid-servants. But I will be firm."

They had now got to the steps that led into the summer parlor, and as she turned to go up them, she gave a look at her companion, who was lifting his hat and passing on. He looked so stalwart and so invincible, that she believed he was anything but a coward, except where women were concerned. Somewhere, however, there must be a loose scale in his armor. He certainly was the sort of man tyrannized over easily by women.

"And yet," thought Missy, correcting the conviction, "in one case we know he was a brutal tyrant. But no matter. Anything to rescue Jay." So she gave him a pleasant smile, and told him they should wait tea for the children, and went into the house, while he walked rapidly towards the gate.