MINE HOST.

"Tell Mr. Andrews I hope he will let us know if there is anything we can do for him," she said, half ashamed, as Eliza went up-stairs with the tray.

By this time Miss Varian had come down-stairs, and Goneril, very tired and cross, twitched some chairs and a footstool about for her; and Anne, looking oddly out of place, came in to know if she should carry Mrs. Varian's breakfast up to her. It was all very strange and uncomfortable. The servants had evidently spent much of their time in talking over the incidents of the fire, and Melinda was late with her breakfast. Missy couldn't imagine where they had all slept; but here they all were—two cooks in the kitchen, two waitresses in the dining-room, two maids in the parlor, and no breakfast ready. Miss Varian felt very irritable; the children had waked her by five o'clock with their noise, and she could not go to sleep again. The absence of her usual toilet luxuries exasperated her, and all the philosophy which she had displayed the night before forsook her. She scolded everybody, including Mr. Andrews, who was to blame for having such a hard bed in his spare room, and the cook, who was so late in getting breakfast ready. Missy disdained to answer her, but she felt as cross, in her way. The children, who had been sent out of doors to allow Miss Varian to go to sleep again, now came bursting in, and made matters worse by their noise. They were full of news about the fire, and, to judge by their smutty hands and aprons, had been cruising round the forbidden spot.

"Jay, if you love me," said Missy, putting her hands to her ears, "be quiet and don't talk any more about the fire. Let me eat my breakfast, and forget my miseries."

But Gabrielle could not be silenced, though Jay, when the hominy came, gave himself to that. She always had information to impart, and this occasion was too great to be lost. She told Missy everything she didn't want to hear, from the destruction of the flowerbeds by the crowd, to the remarks of the boys at the stable, about her father's broken arm.

"They said he was a fool, to work so hard for nothing; they expected to be paid, but he didn't. Then Peters said 'maybe he expects to be paid as well as you,' and then they all laughed. What did they all laugh for, Missy, and do you suppose my father does expect to be paid?"

"I suppose you were where you had no business to be," said Missy, shortly. "Now, if you will eat your breakfast, and be silent, we shall thank you."

Then Gabby retired into the hominy and there was a silence if not a peace. It was a dull morning—much fog, and little life in the air. Missy hadn't even looked out of the window. She dreaded the thought of what she was to see on the other side of the hedge. If it had been possible, she would have delayed the work that lay before her; but she was goaded on now by the thought that if she did not hurry, they must spend another night here, and eat another breakfast to the accompaniment of Gabby's information and observation. It was ten o'clock before she could get away, leaving directions to the servants to follow her.

It was a dismal scene; the faultless lawn trampled and torn up, the vines torn from the piazza and lying stretched and straggling on the ground. The windows were curtainless, the piazza steps broken, the piazza piled with ladders and steps and buckets; the front door had a black eye. There was at this side of the house not much evidence of the fire, but at the rear it was much worse. The summer parlor was badly damaged, the sashes quite burnt black, the ceiling all defaced. The flames had reached the room above, Missy's own room, and here had been stayed. The windows were broken out, a good deal of the woodwork charred, and the walls much damaged with water. These two rooms were all that were seriously injured. It was quite wonderful that the damage had gone no further; there had been no wind, and Mr. Andrews had been on the spot; if they had not had these two things in their favor, the house must have gone. Peters had shown himself a respectable donkey, and none of the women but Goneril proved to have any head in such an emergency. Missy tried to be comforted by the smallness of the material injury. But the desolation and disorder of the pretty rooms! In her own, Missy fairly cried. She felt completely dÉpaysÉe. A few hundred dollars and a few weeks would put it all in order again, but Missy was not in a philosophic mood. She felt herself an outcast and a wanderer, and turning bitterly from the scorched spot, vowed never to love anything again.

By this time the clumsy Peters and the headless maids had come up to be set to work. So turning the keys on the damaged rooms, she followed them out and began to try roughly to get the furniture back into the rooms to which it belonged. Her ambition, at present, was to get her mother's and her aunt's rooms in order to have them return that night, and the kitchen so far reconstructed that the servants might do their work. But at night-fall, the prospect was so dismal, the hall so encumbered with unbestowed goods, the workmen so tardy, the progress so small, that Missy reluctantly acknowledged she would be cruel to her mother, if she insisted on bringing her back to such a scene of desolation. She must be contented to accept Mr. Andrews' considerate hospitality. He had sent over Eliza with a message at lunch time, in which he took it for granted that they were to stay there for the present, and covered all the ground of an invitation, and was less offensive. It was understood and inevitable, and so she tried to take it.

The rain came down heavily at six o'clock; as she locked herself out of the front door, and wrapping her waterproof around her, went down the wet steps, and out on the soaking ground, feeling tired and heartsick, she could not but contrast the scene with that of last evening, when, under the smiling rosy sunset, she had come down the steps on her way out to her stolen row upon the bay. It seemed a year ago, instead of a day. Ann followed close behind her, with various articles for the comfort of her mother. At the door of the Andrews' house Ann took off her mistress' waterproof and overshoes.

"I am almost too tired to speak, Ann," she said. "I shall go up-stairs and lie down, and you may bring me a cup of tea. I don't want any dinner."

But once up-stairs, Missy found she must change her plans, and forget her weariness. Her mother was quite unable to go down to dinner; indeed, was only waiting for her tea, to try to quiet herself with a view to getting a tolerable night. Miss Varian had a violent attack of neuralgia; the whole house had been laid under tribute to alleviate her sufferings. She was to have her dinner in bed, and had ordered the house to be kept perfectly quiet after she had partaken of that meal. Eliza, the waitress, no less than Goneril, had been actively running up and down stairs, to take her orders to the kitchen. Melinda had received directions from Mr. Andrews to cook an unusually elaborate dinner, to do honor to the guests. Ann had confided this to Mrs. Varian in the afternoon. She thought it such a pity, for she knew nobody would eat it. And now, when Missy told her mother, as she took off her hat, that she was going to lie down and have a cup of tea, Mrs. Varian made an exclamation of regret.

"The meals that have gone up and down stairs to-day in this house!" she said. "Mr. Andrews, poor man, doesn't eat much, but it has to be carried to him. And your aunt has had her lunch in many varieties, and now her dinner. And I, alas! And now, if you can't go down, my dear, and the fine dinner has to go off the table without any one even to look at it, it will be unfortunate. You don't think you could go down just for the form of it, and try to eat something? Eliza has had to get out some of the silver that has been packed away, and I have heard much consultation outside about table-cloths. It does seem very awkward. Three guests, and all demanding to be served with dinner in their own rooms. Poor Missy, it always comes on you. There now, don't mind a word of what I've said, but stay here and rest, I know you need it."

For Missy had thrown herself down into a chair, and looked just ready to cry. She was quite overstrained, and if ever any woman needed a cup of tea and the luxury of being let alone, that woman was Missy.

"Of course I can go down," said Missy, with something between sobbing and spitting fire. "I can do anything in the world—but hold my tongue," she added, as she saw her mother look distressed. "Oh, of course I'll go down, I don't really mind it. I shan't have even to smooth my hair. For as there will be no critics but the children and the waitress, I may be saved that effort. I suppose I must praise the dinner liberally, to make Melinda happy. Oh, I am so tired. My hands feel as if they were full of splinters and nails, and I can't go across the room to wash them. I wonder if the waitress would care if I didn't wash them. I'm sure I shouldn't. By the way, I must ring for Ann and tell her I am going down to dinner, or the best table-cloth will be taken off before I see it."

Ann took down the message in time to stay the spoliation of the table, and when dinner was served, came up to say so to her mistress. She was too tired to do more than wash her hands; she did not even look in the glass. She felt hysterical as well as weary, and said to herself, if Gabrielle says anything hateful, I shall certainly make a scene. The lights hurt her eyes as she went into the dining-room. Jay laid hold of her hand, and kissed it with fervor, and then pulled a bow off the side of her dress, to make up for the caress.

"So we are to have dinner together, are we, you and I and Gabby," she said, sinking into her chair, and pointing Jay to his.

"And papa," said Gabby, with a keenly interested look. "Didn't you know he was coming down to dinner?"

"No," said Missy, feeling herself grow red. "I thought he wasn't well enough."

At this moment, the door opened, and Mr. Andrews came in.

"I did not think you were able to come down," Missy said, rather awkwardly, rising. "You must excuse me—for—for taking my seat before you came."

"It was so tiresome staying up stairs," said Mr. Andrews simply, and they took their places silently.

The two children's seats had been placed opposite to Missy. But Jay refused to submit to this arrangement, and kicked against the table legs and cried till he was carried around to sit by Missy. He certainly behaved very badly, and made them all uncomfortable. Then, when they had got partly over this, and were trying to talk a little, Gabby took occasion to say, when there was a pause in the rather forced conversation, critically looking across at Missy:

"If you had known papa was coming down, would you have brushed your hair, do you think, Missy?"

The waitress, Missy was sure, suppressed a sudden giggle. Missy was so angry, and so agitated, she grew pale instead of red.

"I am sure I should," she said, deliberately, looking at her. "And perhaps, have put another cravat on, for this one, I am afraid, is rather dusty."

"Why didn't you put it on any way," said Jay.

"Why, because little children are not supposed to know or care; but for grown people, we have to try to be polite."

These brave words over, Missy felt she had done all that was possible in self-defense, and began to feel as if she should cry at the next assault. Poor Mr. Andrews looked bitterly annoyed. He was so pale and ill-looking, and had made such an effort to come down and be hospitable, that Missy's heart was softened. She resolved to make it easy for him, so she began to talk about the condition of the house and to ask questions and get advice. But the poor man was too ill, and too straightforward to talk about anything he wasn't thinking about. The presence of Gabrielle made him nervous as a woman; every time she opened her mouth, if only to ask for a glass of water, he was sure she was going to say something terrible. Such a dinner. Melinda's nice dishes went away almost untouched, almost unseen. At last Gabrielle, reassured by the subjection in which she found her elders, ventured upon that which lay nearest her heart, namely, the topic of discussion in the stable that morning.

"Papa," she said, in a very insinuating voice, and with a glance around, "do you expect to be paid for—"

But Missy was too quick for her. She started to her feet, the color flaming to her face.

"Gabrielle, I forbid you to speak another word while I am in the room. Mr. Andrews, you must excuse me—I am very sorry to make you so uncomfortable, but I cannot—stand it—any longer," and with an hysterical choke she sprang to the door.

When she was gone, I wouldn't have been in Gabby's place for a good deal. Fortunately the waitress was out of the room when the fracas occurred, and when she came back, she was at liberty to suppose that the furious punishment bestowed upon Gabrielle was in consequence of an overturned glass of wine which was bedewing the best table-cloth. Some gentlemen are so particular about their table linen. She had not seen this side of Mr. Andrews' character before, but then, to be sure, they had never used the best linen since she had been in the family.

When Missy, panting and hysterical, reached the top of the stairs, she didn't know exactly what to do. She knew very well if she took refuge in her mother's room (which was her own, too), she destroyed all chance of sleep for her mother that night. She couldn't go into the nursery, where Gabby would probably be sent for punishment. She couldn't seek the sweet shelter of Miss Harriet Varian's sympathy, and it wasn't dignified to sit on the stairs. What was she to do? Just at this moment, Goneril came softly out of her mistress' room.

"Is Miss Varian asleep?" asked Missy, in a low tone.

"Heaven be praised, she is!" returned Goneril, with great fervor.

"Then I will go and sit by her till you get your dinner," she said, going past her into the room. Here was refuge and darkness, and she sat down in an easy chair near the door. How little consolation there was in being quiet, though, and thinking. She was so enraged—so humiliated. She had fought clear of the embarrassment and disgrace of last autumn, and had flattered herself she had conquered both herself and gossip; and now it was all to be done over again. She had no heart to begin again. She was going away. She would go away. There was no reason she should not have her way, sometimes. There was a good excuse for a summer's absence. They would leave the carpenters and painters in the house—she didn't care for the house now, and what they did to it—and they would go to the mountains till she had got over this miserable sensitiveness, and till the Andrews' had got tired of Yellowcoats. Oh, that that might be soon! She never wanted to see one of the name again, not even Jay. (She had had these reflections before, and had thought better of them, at least as concerned Jay.) By and by, while she was still solacing herself with plans for flight, she heard the children come up-stairs, Jay fretting, as if he felt the discomfort in the air. Gabrielle was very silent. Eliza was rather hurried; she was human, though a good nurse, and there was a large and cheerful circle sitting down around the kitchen table to an unusually good dinner. It was rather hard lines to be putting the children to bed, when they ought to have stayed up, as they always did, until she had had her dinner. Now everything seemed out of joint for some reason, and the children as troublesome as possible. Eliza, excellent servant though she was, was but a servant, and to sit pat-patting Jay, while the festive circle down-stairs were getting through the choicest bits of pastry and of gossip, required more patience than she had. The children were hustled into their night-clothes rather hastily. Gabrielle, sulky and white, offered only slight petulant resistance, but Jay cried and grew worse-tempered every minute. At last Eliza got them both into bed and turned down the lamp.

"Now go to sleep, like a good boy," she said, tucking in the clothes of Jay's crib; but there was restlessness in her very tone, and though she sat down, she did not convey the idea of permanence, and Jay grew wider awake every moment, watching lest she should go away. At length, starting up impatiently, she cried:

"There's reason in all things. You're big enough to go to sleep by yourself. I must have my dinner."

And without a look behind, she hurried from the room. This had never happened before. She had always occupied herself in putting away the children's clothes, and in moving softly about the room, and singing in a low voice; and so Jay, without being absolutely coddled, had always fallen asleep with a sense of protection and companionship. But to-night everything was going wrong. Here was papa in such an awful way, and Missy running away from the table crying, and Gabby scared to death and punished—and now his nurse getting cross, and going down and leaving him all alone in the dark. There had been vague and terrible stories of what came in the dark, during the reign of Alphonsine and Bridget, which had not been quite obliterated.

Jay lay mute with amazement for a moment; and then, sitting up in bed, and looking into the dimness surrounding him, began to cry piteously, and to call upon Eliza to come back. But Eliza was out of reach of his cries now, and Gabby, stubborn and wicked, would not open her lips. He cried and sobbed till his throat felt sore and his head burning.

"Missy, Missy! I want you, Missy!"

Missy had listened, with vexation at Eliza, but with no intention of taking up her duties, till that plaintive cry smote her heart and melted it. The poor little lonely child, with no love but the unsteady love of hirelings! She started up and stole into the nursery. The cry with which Jay flung himself into her arms made him dearer to her than ever before. He clung to her, all trembling and beating, his wet little face buried in her neck.

"You won't go away and leave me, you won't, promise me, Missy, you won't go."

"No, Jay, my own little man, I won't. Lie down; I promise you, I'll stay."

Every one else had failed him, but he still believed in Missy. So he was pacified and reassured, and after awhile lay down, holding both her hands. She let down the side of his crib, and sitting beside him, laid her head on his pillow; he put one hand on her throat, and held the other tight in one of hers, and so, after awhile, he fell asleep. But a ground-swell of sobs still heaved his breast after such a heavy storm. Missy held the little warm hand tight, and kissed him in his sleep. She had promised not to go, and she dared not move his hand from her neck, nor stir her head from the pillow for fear of waking him.

The room was still and dim, and she was very tired, by and by the troubles of the day melted into dreams, and she slept. How long, she could not tell. A light gleaming in her face aroused her; she started up in sudden consternation, for Mr. Andrews stood looking at her, in, it must be said, equal consternation. He had moved the screen from the nursery lamp, and coming up to the bed to look at his boy, had seen the not unpretty, but very unexpected picture of the two sleeping in this close embrace.

Missy's first feeling was one of anger; but surely Mr. Andrews had a right in his own nursery, and, as usual, she was in the wrong—she was where she had no business to be; her bitter vexation showed itself on her face.

"I beg your pardon," he said, stepping back, "I—I didn't know you were here."

"Jay cried so, I came in to pacify him," she said, "and he would not let me go."

"You are very kind to him," said the father earnestly.

"Not particularly," she returned, fastening up the side of the crib, and laying him softly further over on his pillow. "One doesn't like to see a child imposed upon, and Eliza was very wrong to leave him."

"Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews, still earnestly, and Miss Rothermel prepared herself for something she did not want to hear, "I have no words to express to you the annoyance that I feel about Gabrielle."

Missy waved her hand impatiently.

"But I have words to express a resolution that I have formed this evening, and that is, that it shall be the last time that you shall suffer from her. I shall send her away to boarding-school as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements; and that I hope will be within a week, at furthest."

It was now Missy's turn to be in earnest.

"I hope you won't do anything of the kind, Mr. Andrews, on my account at least. I can only assure you, it would be far more annoying than anything she has ever done. I should never forgive myself for having caused you to do what I am quite sure would be the worst thing for her. She is very well situated now. You have good servants, she has the free country life she needs, and no bad companions. If she can't improve now, I'm afraid she never will."

"I'm afraid she never will, wherever she may be," answered Mr. Andrews, with almost a groan. "I could tell you something of her, if—if—"

"I am sure of one thing," rushed on Missy, not heeding what she might have heard if she had listened; "I am sure of one thing, I should never have a moment's peace, if I felt I had been in any way the cause of sending from her home such a desolate little child. I cannot forget that I had a friendship for her mother, and I should be always followed by the thought of her reproach."

Mr. Andrews' face changed; he bent his head slightly. The change was not lost on Missy.

"Besides that feeling," she said, with a touch of bitterness, "which, I have no doubt, you look upon as a weak piece of sentiment, I don't see what difference her going or staying can make to me. It would be a pity to do her an injury which would do no one any good. I shall not necessarily see her half-a-dozen times, before we go away, which, I hope, we shall do for the summer, very shortly. And when we come back Jay will have forgotten me, or you will all, perhaps, have left the place. It is really too much said already on a subject which is very insignificant, though it has proved sufficiently disagreeable." And she moved as if to go away.

"I quite agree with you that it has been very disagreeable; but I don't entirely see that what you have said alters my duty in the matter. I think she has deserved to be sent away; I am not sure that the discipline of a school would not be the best thing for her. I am quite sure that it is not my duty to destroy my own peace, or deprive my little boy of friends or kindness, by keeping her at home."

"Not your duty, Mr. Andrews!" cried Missy. "Well, of course we look at things from such different points, it's no use discussing—"

"We will waive the discussion of my duty," said Mr. Andrews, not urbanely; "but I should be very glad to know why you think it would hurt Gabrielle to send her to a good school?"

Like all home-bred girls, she had a great horror of boarding-schools, and with vivacity gave a dozen reasons for her horror, winding up with—"I believe it would make her a hundred times more deceitful than she is now. It would establish her thirst for intrigue; it would estrange her from you; it would deprive her of the little healthy love that she has for out-door life and innocent amusement. If you want to ruin Gabrielle, Mr. Andrews, pray send her to a boarding-school!"

"I don't want to ruin Gabrielle, but I want to have a little peace myself, and to let my neighbors have some, too."

"Your neighbors' peace needn't be considered, after—after we go away from the house; and I am sure you have frightened her enough to-night to make her behave better while we are obliged to stay with you."

As soon as the words were out, Missy shivered at their sound. She did not mean to be so rude.

"I beg your pardon," she said, not with successful penitence; "but you know we did not impose our selves upon you from choice."

"I know you would not have come if you could have helped it, certainly. I am not to blame for that, however."

"Well, I'm sure I didn't mean to blame any one. You must excuse me; I am very tired to-night. Only let Gabrielle's matter be considered settled, won't you? I shall thank you very much, if you will promise me she shan't be sent away."

The father glanced at the small white bed, where Gabrielle lay motionless, with her eyes shut and her face turned from them, presumably asleep.

"I won't take any step about sending her away, if you feel so about it—for a little while, at least."

"Very well; thank you! Then it is settled. Good night." And Missy went away, not exactly, it must be owned, as if she had received a favor, but as if hardly-wrung justice had been obtained for Gabrielle and Gabrielle's dead mother. That, at least, was how she felt—and Mr. Andrews wasn't altogether stupid. He sighed as he bent over Jay's crib, and smoothed the hair back on his pillow, screening the light from his eyes, and turning down the lamp; but he did not go near the bed of the offending Gabrielle, and left the room without another glance in her direction.