THE HONEYED COUSINS.

Missy often had occasion to wonder whether Mr. Andrews was imposed upon or not; he of course might want to marry his cousin, without believing that so many other people had wanted to. But she longed to know whether he saw through their palpable little feminine schemes, whether he knew them for the cheats they were, and was just going into it because he was fascinated with the young woman's pretty looks and sprightly ways, and because the older woman knew how to order him good dinners and keep the children quiet.

For, that he was going into it, she would not permit herself to doubt. He looked rather preoccupied and uncomfortable when she saw him. He had come over one evening alone, to propose some drive or expedition, in which she had promptly refused to take part. Another evening, he had come accompanied by Miss Flora, who had made a jest of her unconventionality, and had been pert and lively to an astonishing degree, but who had wished herself away many times before the call was over, and who had said bitter things to her escort about the stiff household, on her way home. The evenings at the beach gate were at an end; the distance between the two houses had grown into a chasm. The children, ah! that was the hardest part, came less and less frequently, and Jay was as spoiled and changed as Missy, in her greatest despondency, had imagined. Continued petting and present-giving had established a certain tie between him and his cousin, and the sight of Missy always seemed to stir up all the evil in him, or perhaps all the contradictory good. At all events, he was so palpably bad with her, that he gave a text that Mrs. Eustace was not slack in preaching on—to wit, her pernicious influence upon him. Mr. Andrews was a silent man; he did not say amen to any of these comminations, neither did he contradict them.

The chasm between the two houses hourly grew in breadth. Miss Rothermel had never called after the first. All the advances had to be made by the new-comers. Miss Varian had, indeed, been rather troublesome, and had invited the young lady to read to her, and that had been the excuse for several morning visits. But even her persistence was not proof against the coldness of the young lady of the house, and finally she ceased to come at all. The people in the neighborhood had called upon them, and they had been invited to whatever was going on, which, though it was not much, was enough to keep their spirits up. They were quite popular, the mother was called a charming person, the daughter extremely clever, playing like an artist, painting like a genius, and with such lovely manners, too. Of course, every one said Mr. Andrews would marry her, or break his heart about her. They wondered how Miss Rothermel would take it, and Miss Flora was not slow to express to everybody to whom she had a chance to express it, her regret that Miss Rothermel did not seem to like her, and her innocent wonder what could be the cause.

"For I am not used to being snubbed," she would say. "I don't know why it is, but people generally seem to like me. I suppose it's because I'm good-natured, and don't make any trouble. I know, of course, it's nothing in me different from other people; it's only that I'm happy and all that. But Miss Rothermel seems to hate me, actually. She really is quite rude; and I may say it to you, scarcely lady-like in her treatment of me. Mamma is so incensed about it, and I think it troubles Mr. Andrews, who is so kind, and wants our summer here to be without a cloud. But it isn't worth thinking about. I can't help being happy, and having a beatific time, even if she isn't pleased about it."

Sailing parties, and drives, and whist and sketching parties had all been refused by the severe little lady next door; but at last there came an invitation which she made up her mind to accept. It was to dinner, and Mrs. Varian had said it must be done. She was troubled a little at the attitude in which Missy had placed herself, though she could not help sympathizing with her in her dislike of the two strangers.

"Am I fine enough, mamma?" said Missy, presenting herself before her mother, at seven o'clock, one evening the latter part of August. She was fine, indeed, in a pale grey dress, with a train that was imposing, and sleeves to the elbow, with beautiful lace, and an open throat with lace, and lovely stockings, and the most bewildering little shoes. She had a string of pearls around her neck, and gloves with no end of buttons, and a great color on her cheeks, and a deal of light in her pale eyes.

"Am I fine enough, mamma?"

"Fine enough, my dear? you are actually pretty; I wish you did not have to go away. I should like to look at you all the evening."

Miss Flora was not able to wear pearls of that magnitude, nor lace of that value; she dressed strikingly, but of necessity, rather cheaply, and her cheap finery galled her, in the presence of such elegance. Missy looked much better than usual; Flora looked much worse, having sailed with Mr. Andrews all the morning, till she had a red tinge on her nose, and a swollen look about her eyelids and lips. The wind had been very strong and the sun very bright, and Miss Flora had forgotten to put on a veil. She had had a very nice sail, but—it was unfortunate that there was to be dinner company that evening. Darkness and cold cream would have put her all right, if she could have taken refuge in them instead of facing all that light and all those people.

The mother also was a little fretted at some of the domestic arrangements. The cook had given warning that morning, and the waitress was doing her worst; the gardener had insulted her point-blank, and the grocer and the butcher hadn't kept their word. Mr. Andrews liked a good dinner and no bother; it was but too probable that he wouldn't have the one to-day, and would have the other to-morrow, when the servants came to him with their grievances. When to this was added the inflamed state of Flora's complexion, she felt as if her cup were full, and her eyes were spiteful as they dwelt on Missy, though her smiles were bountiful.

Mr. Andrews was silent, after he had spoken to Missy on her arrival, and they all stood about the room aimlessly, before dinner was ready. If Mrs. Eustace had stood in a nearer relation to him, what a sharp little shot he would have had in his ear for not talking to his guests! He had been talking, quite respectably, for him, to one of the Miss Olors, when Miss Rothermel came in. Since that occurrence he had been silent, and Flora had had to speak to him twice before he could be made even to look at her. This gave a sharp little ring to the young lady's laugh, but he did not remark it, probably.

When dinner was announced, he went straight to Miss Rothermel and offered his arm. But Mrs. Eustace pressed forward and told him he had forgotten, and that he was to take Miss Olor in. She laughed and told Miss Rothermel she hoped she would excuse him; he was the most absent of men.

"Dear Mr. Andrews," she said, "never remembers the claim of young girls; Flora and Lily Olor sat by themselves all last evening while he entertained Mrs. Eve and her sister. Duty is always first."

"Oh, then I am duty?" murmured Missy, drawing back, hardly knowing what she said. Mr. Andrews stood speechless with an awkwardness worthy of a younger man, waiting to know whom he was to take if he was not to take Miss Rothermel.

"I don't mean, dear Miss Rothermel," she cried, "that it wouldn't be a pleasure to take you. We all know nobody can talk half so well or knows half so much. But Dr. Rogers is to have that pleasure, and Miss Lily falls to Mr. Andrews' share. You know, dear Mr. Andrews, we talked it all over this morning, but you are so forgetful."

Mr. Andrews said to himself, "We didn't do anything of the kind;" but it wasn't exactly the thing to say aloud, and he was obliged to content himself with taking pretty Miss Olor and seeing Miss Rothermel made over to the doctor, who had already diffused an odor of paregoric and rhubarb through the room.

Now the doctor was not a man generally invited out to dinner at Yellowcoats. He was underbred and elderly, and rather stupid. He did not expect to be invited, and nobody could have been more surprised than he to receive this invitation. He was indebted to his middle-agedness for it, and to his stupidity. Mrs. Eustace thought he would be a charming neighbor for Miss Rothermel, and the fact that he was a widower made it a beautiful satire.

The clergyman of the parish took in Mrs. Eustace to dinner; next to him came Missy, and then the doctor. Opposite, were a mamma and a papa of the young people at the other end of the table—a mamma, that is, of one, and a papa of another. At Mr. Andrews' end of the table they were all young and vivacious: two young Olors, two young men from town, and Miss Flora, who was youth itself. They were very vivacious—a thought too much so, for beings who were out of school. They laughed and talked about things which seemed to have grown up during their mushroom summer intimacy. Nobody could have seen any thing to laugh at in what they laughed about; their manners put every one else outside. Mr. Andrews seemed to be within the circle; he had heard the jokes so often, he seemed to understand them, and though it was possible that he was bored, he recovered himself sufficiently to be civil. Mrs. Eustace's end of the table was a notable contrast, as it was meant to be. She had been obliged to ask Missy (for whom in fact the dinner was given), but she had planned to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

The reverend gentleman was not a conversationalist, the medical one was heavier than lead. The mamma and papa were solid and undertook their dinner materially. Mrs. Eustace made talk diligently. She questioned the clergyman about his Sunday school, the doctor about his patients, she appealed to Miss Rothermel and the mamma opposite about subjects of domestic interest. She treated Missy as the cotemporary of herself and this mamma; she spoke in extenuation of the "young people's" shortcomings at the other end of the table; she begged these two mature ladies not to tell anybody in Yellowcoats what a noisy set they were. Dear Mr. Andrews, she said, enjoyed it so much. It was such a boon to him to have a cheerful home. He was like another man; only that morning he had told her he had not realized what a miserable life he had been leading till they came. And the children, poor neglected darlings, she could not bear to think of what they had had to endure for the past few months.

"I have dismissed their nurse," here she turned to the mamma. "I have found her a most untrusty person. She goes to-morrow. I have been so fortunate in securing a servant I have had at different times for several years. She is a capable, uncompromising creature, and admirable in the government of children. But here I am running on about the children; I beg you will excuse me, I know it isn't table-talk. Dear Miss Rothermel, tell me about your aunt's rheumatism."

The blow about Eliza's going away had been almost too much for Missy's fortitude. Mrs. Eustace looked at her critically, while she waited for the report of Miss Varian's rheumatism.

"I am afraid that isn't table-talk either," she managed to say; but at the moment the darlings in question came into the room, and all eyes were turned to them. Flora opened her arms for Jay to spring into, which he did with considerable roughness. Gabrielle sidled up to Mrs. Eustace, who embraced her with a warmth most beautiful to see, and made a place for her beside her, for dessert was on the table. The children had left off their mourning, and Gabrielle was braw with sashes and trinkets. As soon as Jay caught sight of Missy, he began to fret; not to go to her, but she evidently made him unhappy, and he kept looking at her furtively, and dashing about the glasses and making plunges for things out of his reach, and acting as the worst kind of a story-book boy acts, who is held up as a warning. Flora kept her temper admirably, and bore his kicks and pushes with a beaming sweetness. He also tore her lace, which, though cheap, was her own, and possibly her all.

"He always acts so badly when Miss Rothermel is near," she said, sotto voce, to her neighbors. "I don't know what it is. I suppose sensitively organized children feel the influence of temperament, don't you suppose they do? And really, don't laugh, but that's just the way Miss Rothermel always makes me feel—restless and fretful, and as if I'd like to break things, and maybe kick somebody."

This made them all laugh, even Mr. Andrews, who turned such an admiring, smiling gaze upon the sunburned Flora, as to fill her with genuine courage.

"Dear Jay," she said, caressing him, "they're laughing at me."

"They ain't," said Jay, loud enough for all the table to hear, "they're laughing at Missy, and you made 'em."

"O, fie," cried Mrs. Eustace, half frightened and half pleased. "Your Flo never did anything so naughty. Little boys sometimes misunderstand."

Missy felt as if she wanted to cry; it was such an enemy's country she was in. She was generally quite ready to defend herself, but this time she had not a word to say; her eyes fell, and her sensitive face showed her pain. Everybody tried not to look at her, but did look at her, of course, and then they tried to talk of other things so diligently as to be apparent. The dinner was wretched after this; a sort of damp crept over every one, even in the youth's department, as Flora called their end of the table. Mr. Andrews never said a word, good or bad, to any one, and that is not a convivial example for a host to set. The dinner had not been a very good one, although pretentious, and Mrs. Eustace had secret stings of apprehension from his silence. She did not know whether it arose from annoyance about the disrespect to Missy, or from disapprobation of the ducks, which were dried up and skinny, and one could fancy had a taste of smoke. The dessert was tame, and the coffee tepid. Contrasted with the perfection of the mÉnage next door, it was a very shabby dinner, and Mrs. Eustace felt really vicious when she watched Miss Rothermel, scarcely attempting to taste the successive failures set before her. But if the truth were known, it was not contempt for the failures, but real inability to eat. She had been galled and wounded beyond her power to show fight; she only asked to get out of it all, and to be let alone. Even Mrs. Eustace saw she had perhaps gone too far, as she heard the quiver in Missy's voice, when called upon to answer some question at a time that everyone was listening. Mr. Andrews might think she had as much transcended her part in insulting his guest, as she had fallen below it in not preparing him a good dinner; she telegraphed to Flora to discontinue. Flora, in alarm, discontinued, but the ship did not right itself. The mamma and the papa could not recover themselves, the doctors of medicine and theology were helpless in the emergency, the young people were in confusion, Mr. Andrews was struck speechless; it was a total wreck.

The ladies got into the parlor somehow—the gentleman got through their smoking somehow. When they met there afterward, it was to find a very silent party; the young ladies were yawning and declaring themselves worn out with the sailing party of the morning. Missy was sitting in a chair by the window, her face away from the rest of the party. Jay was standing in a chair beside her, pulling at the drapery of the window, and talking in a very big-boy tone, but in reality very much comforted by being with her. She had one hand stretched up to take hold of his skirt, for he was rather in danger of tumbling, notwithstanding his grand talk. Missy understood him, and was satisfied of his affection. Mr. Andrews walked straight up to her, not noticing anybody else as he came into the room. She felt herself color fiercely before she turned her face around, for she knew that he was coming.

"Have you and Jay made friends?" he said, unfortunately.

"I did not know we had quarreled," she returned. She would have resented anything he said, not having forgotten his approving glance at Flora, when she made them all laugh at her.

"I am awfully sorry," began Mr. Andrews, in a low tone, looking at the carpet. But Missy didn't permit him to finish the sentence.

"Oh, Mr. Andrews, that is such an old story. You are always being awfully sorry, but it never prevents things happening. I think the only way is not to give them a chance to happen. I want to go home now, if you will see if my maid is come."

Mr. Andrews went to see if the maid had come. She had, and was having a beautiful time in the kitchen with the servants. What Mr. Andrews was thinking of when he came back into the parlor it was difficult to guess from his face. He might have been angry, he might have been bored, he might have been wounded. He certainly wasn't in a good humor. He merely said to Miss Rothermel that her servant was in the hall, and then stood aside as she moved away, only bowing as she said good-night, and, with a kiss to Jay, and as few words as possible to the others, passed out of the room.

"The only way is not to give such things a chance to happen," she said to herself, all in a quiver, as she went out into the night, and the door shut behind her. She heard a not very suppressed noise of laughter in the parlor, as she passed the windows going off the piazza. She had crossed that threshold for the last, last time, she said to herself. And this time she kept her resolution.