A MISOGYNIST.

Aunt Harriet said, "Well, Missy, I suppose you didn't expect to see me."

"You've got Missy's place," said Jay, without ceremony.

"Oh, no matter," cried Missy, turning a little pale, for she foresaw that her fate would be to sit at the head of the table and pour out the tea. Nobody sat there ordinarily, and the waitress poured out the tea. But the table was not very large, and Aunt Harriet had spread out herself, and her strawberries, and her glass of water, and her cup of coffee, and her little bouquet of flowers, over so much of the side on which she sat, that it would have caused quite a disturbance to have made a place for Missy there.

"Where will you sit, Miss Rothermel?" asked the waitress, with her hand on the chair, looking perplexed, and glancing from the encumbered neighborhood of Miss Varian, to the freer region behind the urn and tea-cups.

"Oh, anywhere, it makes no difference," said Missy, determined not to fail the first time she was put to the test. "Here, if it is more convenient."

The servant placed the chair at the head of the table, which Missy promptly took. Mr. Andrews, who had been standing with rather an anxious face, as if he saw his guest's struggle, sat down with a relieved expression.

"You are just in time to reconstruct my coffee," said Miss Varian. "Among her other good qualities, Mr. Andrews, your waitress does not number making good coffee. Mine is tepid, and the cream was put in last, I am sure. You must let Missy make you a cup; I am afraid you have forgotten what good coffee is, if you have been drinking this all winter."

Missy bit her lip, and then shrugged her shoulder, and gave Mr. Andrews a comical glance, as the only way of getting over her aunt's rudeness. She also gave the servant a smile, and a little shake of the head, as she handed the hot cup of coffee to her. The woman was very red and angry, but this mollified her. Miss Varian had the most artless way of insulting servants. Nothing but the general understanding, that it was her way, and the certainty that she would give them a good deal of money at Christmas, kept the servants at home respectful to her.

"Yes, Missy does understand putting a cup of coffee together, even when it's only tolerable to begin with," she said, tasting it with satisfaction. "I think, Missy, if you showed the cook your way of making it, to-morrow morning, Mr. Andrews would bless you every day of his life."

"Why, my dear aunt, the coffee is excellent," cried Missy, "I don't know what you are thinking of. Next you'll be criticising these muffins, which are perfect. Shall I give you one?" Soon after this, the servant left the room, ostensibly to get some hot muffins, but really to pour out her wrath to the cook. While she was gone, Missy perceived that Mr. Andrews had neither tea nor coffee, and was eating very little breakfast. "Are you not going to have coffee?" she said.

"If you will give me some, I think I should like to judge whether Miss Varian is right." So Missy made him a cup of coffee, very hot and nice, and as there was no waitress in the room, got up and carried it to him herself, before he knew what she was doing.

"I beg you'll say it's good," she said. "Now, Jay," as she passed him, "you surely have had hominy enough. Don't you want some strawberries." So she got him a plate from the side-board, and gave him some strawberries, and a kiss, and put the muffins within Gabby's reach before she sat down. Mr. Andrews' anxiety quite melted away, and he began to enjoy his breakfast.

"While you are up, Missy," said Miss Varian, just after she sat down, "give me a glass of water."

Missy laughed, and so did Jay and even Gabrielle, who looked alarmed as soon as she had done it. Could a person be sent to boarding-school for laughing in the wrong place, she wondered. Missy gave her aunt the glass of water, and arranged things so that she could find them near her plate. And so, the breakfast that had begun so threateningly, ended quite peacefully. The morning was warm, but lovely.

"I think, if you will take me to the piazza, I will sit there awhile, Missy, but you will have to get me my shawl and hat, or go off on a cruise to find Goneril, who is never where she ought to be."

"Oh, we'll indulge Goneril with a little breakfast to put her in a good humor for the day, and I'll find the shawl and hat," said Missy, taking her aunt's hand to lead her from the room.

Jay came to make her give him her other hand, and Gabby, allured by the sight of a new bauble on Miss Varian's watch-chain, followed them closely. Miss Varian was established on the front piazza, sheltered from the sun and wind (and conspicuous to the passers-by), Gabby was nailed to her side in fascinated contemplation of the trinket, which, it was quite probable, the capricious lady would end by giving her, and Missy was free to go to her mother for a little while. In half an hour she came down ready to go to her work in the dismantled house. She went into the parlor to find her parasol, and there was Mr. Andrews with letters and papers before him, trying painfully to write with his stiff left hand. "Oh, you must let me do that for you," cried Missy, pulling off her gloves. "If they are business letters, that is," with a little hesitation, for she caught sight of a woman's handwriting, among the letters before him.

"The business ones are the pressing ones. It would be a great kindness, if you could. But you are needed at the house, perhaps."

"I can write for half an hour or so. I have sent the women over, with their work laid out for them for all the morning. I am quite used to this. I write Aunt Harriet's letters every evening, till I go almost to sleep."

"I shall not let you go to sleep," said Mr. Andrews, "over mine." So Missy wrote, and Mr. Andrews dictated, for half an hour at least. "That is all that is needed now; I am very much obliged to you."

"There are a good many more before you yet," she said, glancing at the heap.

"They will do as well another time. Perhaps, if anything comes to-day that has to be attended to, you will be kind enough to write me a few lines to-night."

"Yes, of course; and if you want anything for the afternoon mail, don't fail to send over for me." Then she went away, feeling very virtuous.

In the afternoon, as she came down the steps to go back to see if her mother wanted her, she saw Mr. Andrews just entering at the gate. It was the first time that he had been out, and he showed his four days' confinement to the house. As she met him, he said, with a little hesitation, "I have come to see if you won't go out for a little drive with us this afternoon. It is too fine a day to be shut up in the house."

Her heart sank. A drive en famille with the Andrews', in the teeth of all that had happened in the last few days! How could she brave it? Her color changed a little and perhaps he saw it.

"Don't go if you don't fancy it," he said.

"Oh, it's just the afternoon for a drive. But I was going back to sit with mamma, who has been alone all day."

"I sent up to Mrs. Varian's room to see if there were any chance that she would go with us, and Goneril came creeping out on tiptoe to say she had just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed."

The last hope was extinguished; she made just one more cowardly attempt. "But you," she said, "are you well enough? Isn't it rather against the doctor's orders?"

"No, he gave me permission himself this morning, finding me very much improved."

Then Missy said to herself, "I should think the man could see—" And aloud she said, "Oh, there is nothing in the way. I'll go to the house for my gloves and vail."

When she came back the open wagon stood before the gate of the cottage. Jay was already in it, brandishing the whip and shouting, much to Michael's displeasure, who stood by the horses' heads. Mr. Andrews was coming from the house. Gabby stood behind a post of the piazza, showing a face lead-color with sullenness and disappointment. She had no hat on, and was evidently not to be of the party.

"Isn't Gabby going?" said Missy to Jay.

"No," cried Jay, in selfish satisfaction, "Papa says there isn't room."

"Poor Gabby! why, that won't do," she said, going to meet Mr. Andrews in the path. "Won't you take Gabrielle?" she said. "There is plenty of room for the two children with me on the back seat."

Miss Rothermel enjoyed being magnanimous so much, Mr. Andrews hadn't the heart to refuse her.

"Which way are we going?" he asked, as Michael drove slowly. Jay clamored for a drive, which took them through the village. Miss Rothermel, of course, would give no vote. Gabrielle, when questioned, agreed with Jay. Mr. Andrews admitted it was a pretty drive. "The greatest good of the greatest number," thought Missy, while Michael drove that way.

They took the road through the village, where the men sat thick on the store steps, and where the young village maidens were taking their afternoon saunter. They met the Sombreros, they met the Oldhams and the Olors—whom did they not meet, enjoying or enduring their afternoon drive? Mr. Andrews had his arm in an unnecessarily conspicuous sling. It was malicious of Goneril to put on that glaring great white silk handkerchief. He was labeled hero, and people could not help looking. Missy did not blame them, but it was horrid all the same. However, when they were out of the village, and there were comparatively few people to meet, the influence of the charming day and the absence of charred remains and disordered rooms began to brighten her, and she almost liked it. They drove along a road by the bay. The tide was high, and was breaking with a contented little purring sound against the pebbles; little boats bent idly with the incoming tide and pulled lazily at their anchors. The bay was as blue as the sky; some white sails drifted on it, for scenic effect, no doubt, for what else? for there was no wind, but only a fresh cool air that came in puffs and ripples across the water. Beside them, on the other side of the road, were green and flowering banks, where Jay saw wild roses and anemones and little nameless and beloved wild flowers. There was privet budding and hawthorn fading, and barberry and catbrier and wild grape, in fresh June coloring. Little dust came here in this narrow road, and with this constant dampness from the bay. Nobody pulled down the vines, and they hung in undisturbed festoons from the cedars and the stones.

"I like this," said Jay, with a sort of sigh, after a long moment of silence.

"So do I," said Missy, giving him a kiss.

The sun was behind the cedar and barberry and catbrier banks. They went as far down the Neck as there was a road to go, and then turned back, "the gait they cam' again." The children were exceptionally good, and no one talked much. It was not the sort of hour when one talks much, good or bad, or thinks much, either. Enough bliss it was to be alive,

Jay liked it, and Missy liked it too, though she was twenty-eight. And Mr. Andrews, possibly, though he did not say anything about it.

When they came up the steep little hill by the old mill, Jay felt the spell of the water and the wildflowers broken, and began to clamor to be taken over on the front seat between papa and Michael. He was cold, he said, and he wanted to see the horses, and he didn't want to stay where he was, in point of fact. It was rather a serious thing to contradict Jay, and to carry him howling through the village, like a band to call attention to the arrival of a circus. It was well to afford entertainment to one's neighbors, but Missy did not think it necessary to court occasions of sacrifice, so, with her pleasure much diminished, they stopped, while Mr. Andrews managed to put out his one stiff hand, and then she proceeded to push the hopeful boy over the back of the seat, and establish him between his father and the coachman.

"I must say, Jay, you are a spoiled child," she exclaimed.

"That's so!" cried Jay, complacently, making a lunge towards the whip.

"If you say 'that's so' again, I shall be angry with you," said Missy. "Mr. Andrews, won't you try to stop the children from talking this vulgar slang. Jolly, coquettish, bizarre slang I don't mind, once in a very great while, from children, but this sort of kitchen and village boy vulgarity they never will get over, if they keep it up much longer."

"I have done my best," said Mr. Andrews.

"Well, I hope you'll excuse me for saying I don't think you have covered yourself with glory."

"Jay, we're a bad lot; we must reform at once," said the father, putting his stiff arm around his boy, and giving him a hug. "Miss Rothermel will give us up if we don't."

"That's so!" cried Jay, boisterously, kicking the shawl off his legs, and nearly tumbling off the seat in his enthusiasm.

"I have given you up," said Missy. "Don't put yourselves to the trouble of reforming on my account."

Nothing seemed to disturb the tranquillity of Mr. Andrews this evening. He looked around and saw Missy's face darken as they found themselves meeting carriages arriving from the cars, but it did not seem to depress him; on the contrary, he seemed quietly amused.

"The cars are three-quarters of an hour late!" exclaimed Missy, unguardedly; "I thought we should have escaped them."

"There is no dust to-night," said Mr. Andrews; "so they don't do us any harm."

"No, of course not," murmured Missy, bowing stiffly to Mrs. Eve and her placid-looking son, who swept past them as if they were fugitives from justice.

It was amazing why every one who came from the cars by the late train drove as if pursued by fate.

When they reached home, there was another trial awaiting Missy. A long-legged, good-looking man was sitting on the piazza, with his feet higher than his head, and a meerschaum in his mouth. He came forward briskly to meet the arrival and welcome his host; but he was aghast to find a well-dressed young lady getting out of the carriage, and could scarcely command words to explain that he had only that day heard of his friend's accident, and had hurried up, by the just-arrived train, to learn its extent. He was evidently one of Mr. Andrews' bachelor friends—a woman-hater, like himself; and his thorough chagrin at seeing Miss Rothermel, after an introduction, go into the house, would have been amusing to any one less intimately connected with the surprise. Just as Missy—followed closely by the children, and, at a little distance, by the two gentlemen—was entering the house, a second female cavalcade, headed by Miss Varian, attended by two maids bearing bathing-clothes and towels, came from the direction of the water, and met them upon the piazza.

"Is that you, Missy?" said her aunt; "I have been trying my first bath of the season; and I assure you it was cold." As if this were not enough to try the nerves of the poor misogynist, Mrs. Varian at this moment descended the stairs, accompanied by Anne with her shawl and book.

"I thought I would give you a surprise, Missy," she said, with her sweet smile, "and be down-stairs to meet you."

Missy kissed her, and tried to look as if it were an agreeable surprise. The cup of the guest's amazement was now apparently full. Here were six strange women gathered on his friend's threshold to meet him, all evidently at home. Had Mr. Andrews' accident affected his reason, and had he begun a collection of these specimens, that had lately been his abhorrence? What had occurred, to turn this peaceful abode of meerschaum and Bourbon into a clear-starched and be-ribboned country house, where shooting-coats and colored shirts were out of place? What should he do about his boots? Was there a train to town to-night? or ought he to stay, and look after poor Andrews? Wasn't it his duty to telegraph to some one in town at once for medical advice? He had always heard that people turned against their friends when the brain was involved; and, most likely, this was a case in point, and Andrews had turned toward his enemies, as well.

All these thoughts rushed through his mind (and it wasn't a mind that could bear rushes through it, without showing its disturbance), while Mr. Andrews, with unusual urbanity, was bowing to Mrs. Varian, and making her welcome. It was the first time she had been down-stairs since she had been in the house, and it seemed to give him a great deal of pleasure. She always called out in him, as in every man who met her, the highest degree of chivalry that was in him.

But the guest did not look at her; he only looked at his friend, transformed into a ladies' man, a Chesterfield—everything that he wasn't before. He staggered in his gait as he looked on, and took hold of the door-post for support. Missy was glad Mr. Andrews did not observe his agitation; but none of it escaped her, and she longed to give a chance for explanation.

"What can he think of us?" she reflected miserably. But no moment for explanation arrived. The dinner-bell rang, with sharp promptness, as they stood in the doorway. It was Melinda's night out, and no grass was allowed to grow under the family's feet when that night came round. The children were hungry too, and rushed ahead into the dining-room; so nothing remained for Mr. Andrews, but to lay down his hat, give his arm to Mrs. Varian and follow them in. Miss Varian exclaimed she wasn't ready for dinner, just coming from the bath, but Missy dreaded her disturbing them by coming in later, and begged her to come at once. She was hungry, and consented. The guest, whose name seemed to be McKenzie, had nothing to do but to follow. There were places enough arranged at the table, but by a villainous, vicious contrivance of fate, every one got a seat before Missy, who had to place her aunt at table, and she was left staring at her enthronement at the head. "I don't think I'd better sit here," she faltered rather low to Mr. McKenzie, who was stranded beside her, "I think there may be something to carve, and I'm not much at that."

"Oh, by no means," he exclaimed, hurriedly, "I couldn't think of it—that is—I am sure you belong there—I—I—you—that is—"

"Oh, very well," said Missy, seeing that Mr. Andrews was looking rather anxiously in their direction, and sank into her seat.

"I want to sit next to Missy," cried Jay. "Even if she was cross to me, I love her all the same, don't you, papa?"

"All the same," said Mr. Andrews, smiling, and not looking disconcerted, as he took the stopper out of the decanter by him. Missy was very angry for a moment. Why had he not been disconcerted, as she most unhappily was? But in a few moments she thought better of it, and was ashamed of herself. There was poor mamma, who had made such an effort to come down; she must have a cheerful hour at all events. And the miserable man next her must be put at ease. The room was rather warm, and his heat increased his agitation. His soup almost choked him, and Missy at one time thought she should have to introduce him to his napkin, he seemed too ill at ease to find it, though it was beside his plate. She put the salt within his reach, but he didn't see it, and a water bottle, but he was even beyond that. So she filled his glass and pushed it towards him. He saw it at last, and drank it off at one gulp.

"Mr. Andrews," said Missy, "can we have the door a little open? It is rather warm at this end of the room."

"Certainly, Miss Rothermel," exclaimed Mr. Andrews, getting up to open it. "Why didn't you speak before?"

"Heavens! Missy, what are you thinking about! The door open on my back. I should be ill with neuralgia in half an hour. Mr. Andrews, I beg you'll have a little mercy on us. Missy will kill off all the household if you let her have her way about ventilation."

"Oh! n'importe," cried Missy, as Mr. Andrews stood irresolute and embarrassed. "Mr. McKenzie and I may die of asphyxia, but that would be better than Aunt Harriet's getting neuralgia. Pray sit down, Mr. Andrews, I really am used to it."

"And I," said Miss Varian, going on uninterruptedly with her dinner, "am quite familiar with these cases of asphyxia. Pray don't be disturbed, Mr. Andrews. Miss Rothermel has them two or three times a week."

It was so ludicrous, the uninterrupted calm of Miss Varian, who knew she was going to have her own way, and the heat and agitation of the others; that, as Mr. Andrews reluctantly took his seat, they all laughed.

"It is quite true," said Mrs. Varian, wishing to reconcile him. "You know, Missy, you are very imprudent. I believe your aunt has saved you from a great many colds."

"From an early grave, no doubt," said Missy, fanning herself, and giving Mr. McKenzie another glass of water, while he was looking amazed from Mrs. Varian to her sister-in-law. He was still quite incapable of helping himself.

"If he has apoplexy, it will be on my conscience," thought Missy. So, after the discussion, she signalled the waitress to open a window near. This was quietly done, and Miss Varian never knew it, not being as sensitively organized as she thought she was. In the meanwhile, something had come on the table which had to be carved, and it had been put before Mr. Andrews.

"This is a hard case," said the host, "but a man with 'never a hand' can't carve. McKenzie, I believe I must put it upon you."

This was exactly the last straw. The wretched man actually gasped. He writhed, he tried to speak.

"Can't Melinda?" said Missy, quite forgetting that it wasn't her place to make suggestions. She felt sure Mr. Andrews had not seen the purple shade of Mr. McKenzie's complexion.

"Melinda has no gift," said Mr. Andrews. "I have tried her more than once, but she can't carve."

"Then let me try," cried Missy, springing up. "You'll see I have a gift."

"Missy!" murmured her mother, deprecatingly, at this boldness. She evidently had not seen the state the guest was in.

"Mamma," cried Missy, "you know I've had to carve, and make tea, and do a hundred things that didn't belong to me, ever since I was twelve years old, and now you blame me for wanting to show off my accomplishments, when I'm quite of a proper age to display them. I've been imposed on by the family all my life, and now—the ingratitude of republics."

As Missy finished her speech, she stood by Mr. Andrews, who had reluctantly got up, and was glancing rather sternly at his friend.

But the friend did not look at him, he was gazing bewildered at Missy. The familiarity and complete at-home-ness of the whole party made him doubt his senses. It was bad enough to see the women so at ease, though he could believe anything of them. But Andrews evidently liked it, and was pleased with all the liberties they took. It was impossible to account for the state of things by any theory but that of brain disorder. How he got through the rest of the dinner, Missy never quite knew. He had no one to pour out glasses of water for him, and put the wine within reach, for she quite washed her hands of him and sent Gabrielle to take her place, while Mr. Andrews took Gabrielle's; and Missy remained to carve. When they came out from the dinner-table, Mrs. Varian went up stairs, and Missy went into the parlor to gather up some of her aunt's things, of which there were always plenty to gather up. The two gentlemen went on the piazza. She heard them talking as they sat down beside the window, and prepared to smoke.

"I must say, Andrews—"

"Yes."

"That—well. I was a little taken aback to find things—so—a—so—well—so altered with you."

He was beginning to breathe freer and to gain courage, now the atmosphere was clear of women.

"I don't quite understand," returned his friend. "You mean I'm looking badly? You might have thought so a day or two ago, but I'm quite myself to-day, thank heaven."

It seemed to Mr. McKenzie that that was just who he wasn't, but he only smiled derisively, and said, "No; I didn't mean that. I don't think you looking much amiss. On the contrary, you seem uncommonly jolly."

"Jolly!"

"Well for you—that is. Look here, Andrews, if there's a train back to town to-night, I guess I'll take it. I'm not a lady's man, you know. You see I didn't have any idea of what you expected of your friends. I'm not prepared."

"Prepared, for what? We didn't have a dinner-party, did we? I hope you don't mind meeting these neighbors of mine, who have been burned out of their own house, and have taken shelter for a few nights in mine."

"Neighbors," repeated the guest, who was a very good fellow, but not the quickest in the world.

"Why, yes—from the house next door, where the fire was. You knew there had been a fire, I take it, since you had heard about my accident."

"Yes."

"Well, those ladies, as I said, were obliged to leave their own house in flames, and I brought them in here."

"Oh!"

"They seem to be very much obliged to me for what they think I did for them on that occasion, and we get on very well together."

There was a pause, during which Mr. Andrews lighted his cigar, and Mr. McKenzie appeared to be digesting the intelligence.

"All the same, it seems a little queer," he said, after a good deal of deliberation.

"Queer? I must say I don't see it."

"Well, considering how you feel about such things, I mean. I don't suppose there's any real objection, if anybody likes it. There are enough of 'em to make it proper, I've no doubt."

"O yes, I don't think there's anything improper; you needn't be uneasy, in the least, McKenzie."

There were a good many puffs before the new-comer spoke. He was evidently thinking deeply.

"I'm not uneasy about it, but I suppose you know what people will be saying. I know better, of course; but they'll say it, all the same."

"Come, now, McKenzie, who cares for what they say? When you get a little older you won't mind, you know."

This was a club joke, for McKenzie wasn't very young. He had a way of turning red, however, very youthfully, and did care what people said about him, if it had anything to do with the sex opposed to his.

"Ah, bah! that's all nonsense. You'll care, I guess, as much as anybody, when you find what everybody, these ladies here into the bargain, expect of you."

"That's your opinion, is it? Well, come now, I'll set you at rest. These ladies are remarkably sensible. The youngest of them, who is the only one you'd be likely to want me to marry, has a great contempt for me; thinks I'm a brute, and all that. She's fond of the children, and is only civil to me because I happen to be their father and her host."

"Ah, bah!" cried McKenzie, with infinite contempt.

"It's the truth, McKenzie. And I'll tell you something more; she's a spit-fire, and I've been so afraid of her I haven't been near the house all winter."

"You've made up for it this summer, then. No, Andrews, don't you tell me any such stuff. I'm not so young as that, you know."

Andrews laughed a little comfortably, as he smoked. "Well, there's no use in talking, then. But it's a hard case. You'd better not let her know your suspicions."

"Let her know! Heaven forbid! No, I don't think there's any danger."

"McKenzie, upon my word, I believe you're afraid of her too."

"Not in just the way you are."

"She's so little, she couldn't hurt you."

"Not just the way she's hurt you."

"You don't believe me yet. Well, now, let me tell you seriously. This young lady is not the marrying kind; she is too sensible by half. I wouldn't ask her for the world. And you know—well, you know I'm not likely to try it again very soon. We won't talk any more about this; but you may make your mind easy on the subject."

Missy heard as far as this; it wasn't strictly honorable, but she did. She had been sitting in a chair by the window, the easier to pick up a lot of chessmen, which were scattered on the window sill and under it. She had her lap full of the rattling things, when she became interested in the conversation on the piazza. She could not move for some seconds, being fascinated by the sound of her own name. Then, when she wanted to go, she was terrified by the fear of being discovered; the chessmen made such a rattling if she moved an inch; she felt it certain that Mr. Andrews would start and come to the window and look in to see who was eavesdropping, if he heard a sound. He would be sure to think it was Gabrielle, till he found it was the virtuous Missy. How she trembled. How angry she was, and how ashamed. But after this last pleasant declaration she started up, chessmen or no chessmen, and darted out of the room. Mr. Andrews did hear a noise, and did look in, and did think it was Gabrielle; but he could not see who it was that fled; and though Missy heard him sternly calling the little girl in the hall, she was not virtuous enough to go out and tell him, over the balusters, who had overheard his flattering remarks. This omission would probably have rankled in her conscience if she had not seen Gabrielle, from the window, come in at the front gate with Jay at the same moment. So the father must be assured that the children were neither of them the offenders. He could think what he pleased of the servants, that was no matter of hers.

She was too angry to go down-stairs again. She would have found it difficult to say why she was so angry. She knew she was sensible, she knew she was a spit-fire; she knew Mr. Andrews did not mean to ask her to marry him. All this was no news; he had a right to say what he had said, to an intimate friend. She could not expect to be considered sacred. Why shouldn't Mr Andrews talk about her to his friend? He had not been absolutely disrespectful; he had only mentioned facts—a little jocosely to be sure; and a woman hates to be spoken jocosely of between two men, even if admiringly. And Missy hated to be spoken of, at all. She felt that she was sacred, though she knew she hadn't any right to feel so. Poor thin-skinned Missy; it was so hard for her to keep from being hurt; everything hurt her, she was so egotistical.

In the morning it was a joyful sound to her to hear Michael driving to the door for the early train; it was comforting to see the guest drive away alone, and to know that further confidences were over between them for the present. Friends! Imagine calling such a creature your friend, thought Missy, turning away from the window.

It would have been a blessing if he had stayed away. It is difficult even for a humble-minded young woman to be amiable and easy with a person who has called her a spit-fire; it was almost impossible for Missy. Going down to breakfast was like facing a battery; she went to the door two or three times before she had the resolution to open it, and feel herself launched upon the day's embarrassments. Once at table, Mr. Andrews was so commonplace and unconscious, she felt herself strengthened by his weakness. It was a great advantage to know what he did not know. She knew exactly what he thought of her; he did not know that she knew this, nor did he know what she thought of him; Heaven forbid! So she could hold these two advantages in her hand and use them. The result was that she was a little shy and a little silent, and weighed her words very carefully, for a day or two. But bah! when did ever a woman made as Missy was, do anything unnatural to her for longer than a day or two. It was quite in character for her to lay out new parts to act, but equally in character for her to throw them aside impatiently, and fall back into her standard rÔle. She not unfrequently declared to herself, I will be this, I will be that, but she always ended by being Missy. So that it was not surprising that when at last the house was ready for its occupants, and they moved bag and baggage out of the Andrews' cottage, the young lady was as unaffectedly herself as if Mr. McKenzie had not drawn that unhappy statement from his friend. Not that she had forgotten it, exactly. But she had let it drop into that crucible of injuries and misconceptions, an egotistical mind, and it was melted up into something that hurt no longer; in fact, even gave a little pleasure. She had been so natural and so pleasant, that the house seemed dreary to all the family but Gabby, when she was gone. She also missed the excitement herself, and it seemed rather tame the next morning to breakfast with Aunt Harriet alone. The tented field unfits one for the pastoral life; she found herself bored by the security and stupidity of the day on which she was entering. But that did not last long. She was in an hour or so, too busy to be bored.