Bright and early the next morning, Mrs. Pryor presented herself at Mrs. Tree's door. It was another Indian summer morning, mild and soft. As she came up the street, Mrs. Pryor had seen, or thought she had seen, a figure sitting in the wicker rocking-chair on the porch. The chair was empty now, but it was rocking—perhaps with the wind.

Direxia Hawkes answered the visitor's knock.

"How do you do, Direxia?" said Mrs. Pryor, in sprightly tones. "You remember me, of course,—Miss Maria. Will you tell Mrs. Tree that I have come, please?"

She made a motion to enter, but Direxia stood in the doorway, grim and forbidding.

"Mis' Tree can't see anybody this morning," she said.

Mrs. Pryor smiled approvingly. "I see you are a good watch-dog, Direxia. Very proper, I am sure, not to let my aunt, at her age, be annoyed by ordinary visitors; but your care is unnecessary in this case. I will just step into the parlor, and you can tell her that I am here. Probably she will wish me to come up at once to her room, but you may as well go first, just to prepare her. Any shock, however joyful, is to be avoided with the aged."

She moved forward again, but Direxia Hawkes did not stir.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I am so; but I can't let you in, Mis' Pryor, I can't nohow."

"Cannot let me in?" repeated Mrs. Pryor. "What does this mean? It is some conspiracy. Of course I know there is a jealousy, but this is too—stand aside this moment, my good creature, and don't be insolent, or you will repent of it. I shall inform my aunt. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes'm, I know well enough who you are. Yes'm, I know you are her own niece, but if you was fifty nieces I couldn't let you in. She ain't goin' to see a livin' soul to-day except Doctor Stedman. You might see him, after he's ben here," she added, relenting a little at the keen chagrin in the visitor's face.

Mrs. Pryor caught at the straw.

"Ah! she has sent for Doctor Stedman. Very right, very proper! Of course, if my aunt does not think it wise to see any one until after the physician's visit, I can understand that. Nobody is more careful about such matters than I am. I will see Doctor Stedman myself, get his advice and directions, and call again. Give my love to my aunt, Direxia, and tell her"—she stretched her neck toward the door—"tell her that I am greatly distressed not to see her, and still more to hear that she is indisposed; but that very soon, as soon as possible after the doctor's visit, I shall come again and devote myself to her."

"Scat!" said a harsh voice from within.

"Mercy on me! what's that?" cried Mrs. Pryor.

"Scat! quousque tandem, O Catilina? Helen was a beauty, Xantippe was—"

"Hold your tongue!" said Direxia Hawkes, hastily. "It's only the parrot. He is the worst-actin'—good mornin', Mis' Pryor!"

She closed the door on a volley of screeches that was pouring from the doorway.

Mrs. Pryor, rustling and crackling with indignation against the world in general, made her way down the garden path. She was fumbling with the latch of the gate, when the door of the opposite house opened, and a large woman came out and, hastening across the road, met her with outstretched hand.

"Do tell me if this isn't Mis' Pryor!" said the large women, cordially. "I felt sure it must be you; I heard you was in town. You haven't forgotten Mis' Weight, Malviny Askem as was? Well, I am pleased to see you. Walk in, won't you? now do! Why, you are a stranger! Step right in this way!"

Nothing loth, Mrs. Pryor stepped in, and was ushered into the sitting-room.

"Deacon, here's an old friend, if I may presume to say so; Mis' Pryor, Miss Maria Darracott as was. You'll be rejoiced, well I know. Isick and Annie Lizzie, come here this minute and shake hands! Your right hand, Annie Lizzie, and take your finger out of your mouth, or I'll sl—I shall have to speak to you. Let me take your bunnet, Maria, mayn't I?"

Deacon Weight heaved himself out of his chair, and received the visitor with ponderous cordiality. "It is a long time since we have had the pleasure of welcoming you to Elmerton, Mrs. Pryor," he said. "Your family has sustained a great loss, ma'am, a great loss. Miss Phoebe Blyth is universally lamented."

Yes, indeed, a sad loss, Mrs. Pryor said. She regretted deeply that she had not been able to be present at the last sad rites. She had been tenderly attached to her cousin, whom she had not seen for twenty years.

"But I have come now," she said, "to devote myself to those who remain. My cousin Vesta looks sadly ill and shrunken, really an old woman, and my aunt Mrs. Tree is seriously ill, I am told, unable even to see me until after the doctor's visit. Very sad! At her age, of course the slightest thing in the nature of a seizure would probably be fatal. Have you seen her recently, may I ask?"

Deacon Weight crossed and uncrossed his legs uneasily. Mrs. Weight bridled, and pursed her lips.

"We don't often see Mis' Tree to speak to," she said. "There's those you can be neighborly with, and there's those you can't. Mis' Tree has never showed the wish to be neighborly, and I am not one to put forth, neither is the deacon. Where we are wished for, we go, and the reverse, we stay away. We do what duty calls for, no more. I did see Mis' Tree at Phoebe's funeral," she added, "and she looked gashly then. I hope she is prepared, I reelly do. I know Phoebe was real uneasy about her. We make her the subject of prayer, the deacon and I, but that's all we can do; and I feel bound to say to you, Mis' Pryor, that in my opinion, your aunt's soul is in a more perilous way than her body."

Mrs. Pryor seemed less concerned about the condition of Mrs. Tree's soul than might have been expected. She asked many questions about the old lady's manner of life, who came to the house, how she spent her time, etc. Mrs. Weight answered with eager volubility. She told how often the butcher came, and what costly delicacies he left; how few and far between were what she might call spiritooal visits; "for our pastor is young, Mis' Pryor, and it's not to be expected that he could have the power of exhortation to compare with those who have labored in the vineyard the len'th of time Deacon Weight has. Then, too, she has a way that rides him down—Mr. Bliss, I'm speakin' of—and makes him ready to talk about any truck and dicker she likes. I see him come out the other day, laughin' fit to split; you'd never think he was a minister of the gospel. Not that I should wish to be understood as sayin' anything against Mr. Bliss; the young are easily led, even the best of them. Isick, don't stand gappin' there! Shut your mouth, and go finish your chores. And Annie Lizzie, you go and peel some apples for mother. Yes, you can, just as well as not; don't answer me like that! No, you don't want a cooky now, you ain't been up from breakfast more than—well, just one, then, and mind you pick out a small one! Mis' Pryor, I didn't like to speak too plain before them innocents, but it's easy to see why Mis' Tree clings as she doos to the things of this world. If I had the outlook she has for the next, I should tremble in my bed, I should so."

Finally the visitor departed, promising to come again soon. After a baffled glance at Mrs. Tree's house, which showed an uncompromising front of closed windows and muslin curtains, she made her way to the post-office, where for a stricken hour she harried Mr. Homer Hollopeter. She was his cousin too, in the fifth or sixth degree, and as she cheerfully told him, Darracott blood was a bond, even to the last drop of it. She questioned him as to his income, his housekeeping, his reasons for remaining single, which appeared to her insufficient, not to say childish; she commented on his looks, the fashion of his dress (it was a manifest absurdity for a man of his years to wear a sky-blue neck-tie!), the decorations of his office. She thought a portrait of the President, or George Washington, would be more appropriate than those dingy engravings. Who were—oh, Keats and Shelley? No one admired poetry more than she did; she had read Keats's "Christian Year" only a short time ago; charming!

"And what is that landscape, Cousin Homer? Something foreign, evidently. I always think that a government office should be representative of the government. I have a print at home, a bird's-eye view of Washington in 1859, which I will send you if you like. I suppose you have an express frank? No? How mean of Congress! What did you say this mountain was?"

Mr. Homer, who had received Mrs. Pryor's remarks in meekness and—so far as might be—in silence, waving his head and arms now and then in mute dissent, now looked up at the mountain photograph; he opened and shut his mouth several times before he found speech.

"The picture," he said, slowly, "represents a—a—mountain; a—a—in short,—a mountain!" and not another word could he be got to say about it.

Doctor Stedman had a long round to go that day, and it was not till late afternoon that he reached home and found a message from Mrs. Tree saying that she wished to see him. He hastened to the house; Direxia, who had evidently been watching for him, opened the door almost before he knocked.

"Nothing serious, I trust, Direxia!" he asked, anxiously. "I have been out of town, and am only just back."

"Hush!" whispered Direxia, with a glance toward the parlor door. "I don't know; I can't make out—"

"Come in, James Stedman!" called Mrs. Tree from the parlor. "Don't stand there gossiping with Direxia; I didn't send for you to see her."

Direxia lifted her hands and eyes with an eloquent gesture. "She is the beat of all!" she murmured, and fled to her kitchen.

Entering the parlor Doctor Stedman found Mrs. Tree sitting by the fire as usual, with her feet on the fender. Sitting, but not attired, as usual. She was dressed, or rather enveloped, in a vast quilted wrapper of flowered satin, tulips and poppies on a pale buff ground, and her head was surmounted by the most astonishing nightcap that ever the mind of woman devised. So ample and manifold were its flapping borders, and so small the keen brown face under them, that Doctor Stedman, though not an imaginative person, could think of nothing but a walnut set in the centre of a cauliflower.

"Good afternoon, James Stedman!" said the old lady. "I am sick, you see."

"I see, Mrs. Tree," said the doctor, glancing from the wrapper and cap to the bowl and spoon that stood on the violet-wood table. He had seen these things before. "You don't feel seriously out of trim, I hope?"

Mrs. Tree fixed him with a bright black eye.

"At my age, James, everything is serious," she said, gravely. "You know that as well as I do."

"Yes, I know that!" said Doctor Stedman. He laid his hand on her wrist for a moment, then returned her look with one as keen as her own.

"Have you any symptoms for me?"

"I thought that was your business!" said the patient.

"Hum!" said Doctor Stedman. "How long, have you been—a—feeling like this?"

"Ever since yesterday; no, the day before. I am excessively nervous, James. I am unfit to talk, utterly unfit; I cannot see people. I want you to keep people away from me for—for some days. You must see that I am unfit to see anybody!"

"Ha!" said Doctor Stedman.

"It agitates me!" cried the old lady. "At my age I cannot afford to be agitated. Have some orange cordial, James; do! it is in the Moorish cabinet there, the right-hand cupboard. Yes, you may bring two glasses if you like; I feel a sinking. You see that I am in no condition for visitors."

The corners of Doctor Stedman's gray beard twitched; but he poured a small portion of the cordial into two fat little gilt tumblers, and handed one gravely to his patient.

"Perhaps this is as good medicine as you can take!" he said. "Delicious! Does the secret of this die with Direxia? But I'll put you up some powders, Mrs. Tree, for the—a—nervousness; and I certainly think it would be a good plan for you to keep very quiet for awhile."

"I'll see no one!" cried the old lady. "Not even Vesta, James!"

"Hum!" said Doctor Stedman. "Well, if you say so, not even Vesta."

"Vesta is so literal, you see!" said Mrs. Tree, comfortably. "Then that is settled; and you will give your orders to Direxia. I am utterly unfit to talk, and you forbid me to see anybody. How do you think Vesta is looking, James?"

Doctor Stedman's eyes, which had been twinkling merrily under his shaggy eyebrows, grew suddenly grave.

"Badly!" he said, briefly. "Worn, tired—almost sick. She ought to have absolute rest, mind, body, and soul, and, instead of that, here comes this—"

"Catamaran?" suggested Mrs. Tree, blandly.

"You know her better than I do," said James Stedman. "Here she comes, at any rate, and settles down on Vesta, and announces that she has come to stay. It ought not to be allowed. Mrs. Tree, I want Vesta to go away; she is unfit for visitors, if you will. I want her to go off somewhere for an entire change. Can it not be managed in some way?"

"Why don't you take her?" said Mrs. Tree.

The slow red crept into James Stedman's strong, kindly face. He made no reply at first, but sat looking into the fire, while the old woman watched him.

At last—"You asked me that once before, Mrs. Tree," he said, with an effort; "how many years ago was it? Never mind! I can only make the same answer that I made then. She will not come."

"Have you tried again, James?"

"Yes, I have tried again, or—tried to try. I will not persecute her; I told you that before."

"Has the little idiot—has she any reason to give?"

Doctor Stedman gave a short laugh. "She doesn't wish it; isn't that reason enough? I said something about her being alone; I couldn't help it, she looked so little, and—but she feels that she will never be alone so long as—that is, she feels that she has all the companionship she needs."

"So long as what? So long as I am alive, hey?" said the old lady. Her eyes were like sparks of black fire, but James Stedman would not meet them. He stared moodily before him, and made no reply.

"I am a meddlesome old woman!" said Mrs. Tree. "You wish I would leave you alone, James Stedman, and so I will. Old women ought to be strangled; there's some place where they do it, Cap'n Tree told me about it once; I suppose it's because they talk too much. She said she shouldn't be alone while I lived, hey? Where are you going, James? Stay and have supper with me; do! it would be a charity; and there's a larded partridge with bread sauce. Direxia's bread sauce is the best in the world, you know that."

"Yes, I know!" said Doctor Stedman, his eyes twinkling once more as he took up his hat. "I wish I could stay, but I have still one or two calls to make. But—larded partridge, Mrs. Tree, in your condition! I am surprised at you. I would recommend a cup of gruel and a slice of thin toast without butter."

"Cat's foot!" said Mrs. Tree. "Well, good-night, James; and don't forget the orders to Direxia: I am utterly unfit to talk and must not see any one."