Soon after the milking ordeal was at an end Nannie started over to the house of her cousins, the Misfits. It chanced that she happened upon this ill-mated couple in the nick of time.

“Glad to see you, Nan,” exclaimed Mr. Misfit. “I have a day off, and Mrs. Misfit wants to take the boat trip. You must go with us.”

“Yes, we've never been, and I told Henry we really ought to go! I am tired of being asked if I don't think it's pleasant, and having to say I don't know anything about it.”

“You'll have to fly around and get ready, then, for we must take the next train in if we want to catch that boat. You'll go,” he added as his wife slipped away to dress, “won't you, Nannie?”

Nannie stood regarding him with one of her elfin looks.

“You need me, don't you?” she said.

He laughed rather awkwardly. He always felt uncomfortable when Nannie looked at him that way.

“Why, yes, of course. We shall be glad of your company.”

“I know why you wanted me to-day,” said Nannie later on, when she was sitting out on the deck of the boat with him while Mrs. Misfit was taking a nap in the saloon.

He turned and looked at her, and saw it would be of no use to try to evade.

“There's something uncanny about this girl,” he said to himself.

“You wanted me—you and Lillie both wanted me to stand between you. You couldn't endure each other's company for a day. It would bore you to death.”

“You are right,” he said simply. “It would bore me. I don't know about Lillie.”

“Well, I can tell you,” said Nannie, speaking in no uncertain tone. “You are just as uninteresting to her as she is to you.”

He caught his breath.

“You are complimentary, I must say.”

“I know all about it. It's something like this with Steve and me. We don't bore each other, but we don't know what to say.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

Nannie sat silent for a moment. Evidently she was revolving matters mentally. Finally she turned to her companion, and with a roguish smile, which shone like a sunbeam out from overhanging curls, said:

“I suppose I'll have to 'perk up' a little.”

“I don't speak Hindoostanee,” he replied.

“Well, Steve's above me, you know.”

He nodded, but Nannie took no offense. He was thinking. “That's our trouble. I'm above Lillie.”

“And I must try to reach him somehow.”

“If Lillie would do that——” he began, but Nannie cut him short.

“It's not Lillie, it's you! Lillie is above you!”

Again he caught his breath, this time with a gasp, but he was forced to be silent. It would be a strange man indeed who could enter into an argument to prove his wife inferior to himself. He might be thoroughly convinced of this; might even have taken it for granted that others realized the fact, but he could hardly have the face to bring his voluminous arguments on this point to the attention of an outsider.

“I know what you're thinking,” said Nannie, and she looked uncanny again. “I can't say these things as well as some people could, but you think because you know books you're better than Lillie. The books can't be the first things, because there must always be men before there can be books; and there must always be some real things, true things, before there can be men. These were there first. The books don't make them, but just refer to them, and the people that have the real things are higher than the books. That's what makes Lillie higher than you.”

The man sat thinking for a few moments, then he tried to laugh.

“Really, Nannie,” he said, “if one were ill with that horrid disease called Conceit, a quiet half hour with you on the deck of a boat would restore him to health.”

Nannie gazed at him defiantly, but said nothing.

“No, I'll tell you, little one, how it all came about,” he said rather patronizingly. “Lillie and I married when we were boy and girl. She was seventeen and I was twenty. Lillie was very pretty and that attracted me, and I—well, I don't know just what she saw in me!”

“I've often wondered,” said Nannie.

He gave one look of blank amazement and then dropped his hands in dismay.

“Well, I suppose you were more interesting then than you are now,” Nannie went on comfortingly.

“I hope so,” he said humbly, “but we neither of us knew the other. Our tastes were not formed; our characters were not matured. I grew one way, she grew another; now we care for entirely different things, and as a result we are walking through life together and each is utterly alone.”

He was looking off over the big lake now. He had forgotten the annoyances and unpleasant surprises of their conversation. He no longer saw Nannie. A dreary never-ending waste was all that held his mental vision.

Nannie's voice recalled him.

“That's no excuse,” she insisted.

He started like a man rudely awakened.

“Who thought of making excuses?” he said rather gruffly.

But down in his heart lay the testimony that convicted him. By this it was proven that he had for thirteen years been excusing himself.

“If you would take an interest you could do something for Lillie and she could do something for you.”

He did not jest this away. He was taking an interest now and doing some humiliating thinking, and as a result of all this he stood before himself in a clear, new light, in which it could readily be seen that he was less in need of sympathy than of pardon.

On her way home that afternoon Nannie called at Mrs. Earnest's house, and was boisterously welcomed by the two little ones of the family, Mamie and Jim.

“A story! A story!” they shouted.

“Oh, I can't,” said Nannie. “I haven't any in my head.”

“Yes, you must! You promised!” urged Jim in an extremely moral tone (he himself was a shocking transgressor in the matter of promises). “You promised! You know you did! You've got to!”

“Well, what shall it be about?”

“Indians!” screamed Jim, “and let them do a lot of killing!”

“No. I want a kitty story,” said Mamie.

“I won't have a kitty story—I want a bloody Indian story!” said Jim stoutly.

“I don't know any bloody Indian story, and I wouldn't tell one if I did,” said Nannie in her abrupt, decisive way.

“I won't listen, then,” pouted Jim.

“Very well. You may go to Kamchatka if you like. Mamie and I are going to have a kitty story.”

Mamie cuddled up to Nannie, while Master Jim stalked out of the room. It was observed, however, that he was not above taking up a squatter's claim in the hall and listening through the crack of the door.

“Once upon a time,” Nannie began in the old way so fascinating to children—“once upon a time there lived a dear little kitty.”

Just at this point the front door opened and Mr. Earnest walked in. Now, Nannie had never fancied this gentleman, and to-night, as she noted his glowering look, she felt a savage desire to annoy him.

“Hello, chick,” he said, brusquely In answer to little Mamie's greeting. “Good-evening, Nannie,” he added, taking out his paper and seating himself.

As he did so Mrs. Earnest came into the room. She always seemed ill at ease in her husband's presence, though she strove to appear the contrary.

“Why, good-evening, dear,” she began. “Are you home?”

“No, I'm not,” he said roughly. “Can't you see?”

“I thought I recognized you,” she replied, forcing a little laugh.

He made no reply.

“Did you bring the sugar, dear?” she asked presently.

“No, I didn't.”

She was depending on this for preserving, and she wanted to ask why he failed, but did not quite dare.

“Can you bring it to-morrow?” she inquired after an awkward pause.

“I don't know,” he said gruffly.

Again she hesitated. She was very gentle and naturally timid, and his treatment had increased the latter tendency. At last she mustered strength to say:

“I need it very much.”

There was no reply, and directly she left the room.

Now, not one iota of this domestic scene was lost upon Nannie. From the day she had listened to that story told by Constance Chance to her young friend (Mrs. Earnest's oldest child) she had been looking about her sharply. The first direction of eyes newly opened is outward. We see our neighbors—see that instead of performing their part like men they are skulking through life—men as churls, snarling, or it may be stalking, automaton fashion; men as sticks, walking, and we hasten to correct their errors. Our own correction comes afterward, if at all, for as the poet has told us, it were easier to tell twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to do it.

Nannie fastened her eyes upon Mr. Earnest, but as he was now absorbed in his paper he lost the benefit of her fierce glances.

“Why don't you tell?” urged Mamie, who did not relish this interruption to her story.

“Well, once there lived a horrid pig.”

“Why, that's not it,” said the child pettishly. “It's a kitty.”

“No, it's a pig,” reiterated Nannie with emphasis. “A horrid, selfish pig!”

“I don't like that,” pouted Mamie. “You begin about a kitty, and just as I'm getting interested in her you go off on a pig.”

“Well, then, once there was a big, horrid cat.”

“You said a dear little kitty,” cried Mamie.

“He was a dear little kitty once, I suppose, but he grew up to be a big selfish, glowering, tortoise-shell tomcat.”

“Was there any mama kitty?” asked Mamie, who yearned for a gentle element in the story.

“Yes, and she was lovely, so unselfish and kind, but the big, ugly one bullied her all the time till she was afraid to call her soul her own.”

“Did they have any teeny weeny kitties?” asked Mamie.

“Yes, three of them. The oldest was very sweet and the next was rather good sometimes, but showed signs of being horrid like the big one when he grew up, and the littlest of all was very cunning and good.”

“Did they have a little house?”

“Yes, but it was awfully hard to keep it, because when Mrs. Kitty wanted anything she was afraid to ask old Mr. Cat for it, and when he forgot things, instead of begging her pardon, as he should have done, he would glare at her until she was afraid of her life. Oh, he was an odious old thing! He thought he was very big and handsome, but he was horrid-looking, and everybody hated him and he made everybody wretched. Well, one day Mrs. Kitty was going to give a birthday party for the weeniest kitty. They none of them wanted old Mr. Cat to come, because nobody could have a good time when he was around, but they didn't know how to get rid of him without making him angry—he was always angry at somebody or something.

“Now the family who owned these kitties had some rabbits, and lately something had been killing the rabbits, and they wanted to find out what it was, so they set a trap. Well, on the birthday Mrs. Kitty prepared a nice little dinner; she had some new milk, and a little meat and a bit of cheese, and six little mice. The table was so pretty, and everybody sat down, and there was no end of the fun going on, until suddenly they all stopped talking and laughing, for they saw hateful Mr. Cat. He came sulking and glowering along, as if somebody outside had whipped him and he wanted to take it out of his family. Mrs. Kitty begged him to sit down, and the little kitty told him it was her birthday party.

“'What can I help you to?' asked Mrs. Kitty in her pretty voice, trying not to look frightened.

“'None of this stuff,' he growled. 'Haven't you anything decent to eat?'

“'I'm afraid we haven't anything but this,' said Mrs. Kitty, her teeth chattering with dread for fear he'd pounce on the table and break the dishes. 'Do please take something,' she begged.

“But he only made a great hateful ts-s! and turned away as mad as he could be, and then down he hopped right into the rabbit trap, which happened to be near.

“Out came one of the boys of the family, hallooing and shouting to the others that he had heard the trap go off and knew they'd caught the thief, and the poor little kitties ran away as fast as their small legs would carry them, not stopping to see that horrid old Mr. Cat was held fast.”

“What became of Mr. Cat?” asked Mamie.

“He came to a bad end, as all such creatures do,” said Nannie in a terrible voice.

At this point Jim's interest outran his pride, and he swung open the door so that he could hear better.

“What became of him?” persisted Mamie.

“He received a sound trouncing,” said Nannie.

Just at this juncture of affairs she caught sight of Mr. Earnest's eyes peering at her above his paper. Had they been filled with tears or dark with remorse she might have relented, but, shocking to relate, they were fairly twinkling with merriment, and Nannie perceived that she was amusing her auditor hugely, instead of reading him a terrible lesson, and in her anger she all but lost control of herself.

“Wasn't anything else done to him?” asked Jim in a rather disappointed tone.

“Yes,” said Nannie, glaring at Mr. Earnest in a fierce, defiant manner.

“Oh, that's enough to do to him,” pleaded little Mamie.

“No, it isn't,” said Jim. “He ate up the rabbits.”

“Maybe he didn't eat the rabbits,” urged tender-hearted Mamie.

“No, he didn't eat the rabbits. A weasel did that,” said Nannie, her awful gaze still fixed on Mr. Earnest's laughing eyes. “But he had been ugly to his family, and that's the worst, the meanest thing a man—a cat can do, and Providence caught him in a trap to punish him.”

“What else was done to him?” persisted Jim.

“He was hung,” said Nannie, and she almost smacked her lips with savage relish.

“Oh!” said Jim, and he condescended to enter the parlor and plant himself in front of Nannie. “Then what else was done with him?” reiterated this young avenging fury.

“I don't like this story,” said Mamie.

“I do!” said Jim. “It's most bester than Indians.”

Nannie was going to say that was all, but just then she caught sight of those mocking eyes again, and in a sudden fury she added:

“He was drawn and quartered.”

“Oh!” gasped Jim, while Mamie began to weep.

Just then a roar of laughter ensued from behind the newspaper, and Nannie, whose every nerve was taut, leaped from her chair.

The newspaper fell, and the two chief actors in this drama confronted one another, one of them convulsed with laughter and the other with flashing, defiant eyes and tightly pursed mouth.

“And after that—” urged Jim. “Go on, Miss Nannie. Oh, this is a bully story! It's bestest than Indians!”

“After that,” said Nannie, turning squarely on Mr. Earnest, “after that he was sent to the penitentiary for life, and everybody said 'Good enough!' 'Served him right, nasty, mean, horrid old thing!'” and away she went, slamming the front door behind her.

The bang of the door, and still more the unusual sound of Mr. Earnest's laughter, brought the little wife to the spot.

“We had a bully story!” Master Jim explained. “There wasn't any fighting in it, but a big old cat got caught in a trap, and he was hung and quartered up.”

“Jim!” said his mother. “Do stop! I don't like such stories. What could Nannie have been thinking of?”

If she had dared she would have added: “I don't see how anybody could have laughed over that.”

But perhaps she was checked by a look on Mr. Earnest's face. He was not laughing now; neither was he scowling; he looked very grave.

“Jennie,” he said, “come here, dear,” and with a quick, unaccustomed flutter of her heart she went to him. “I've been a brute—a cowardly brute, but I'm sorry, and I want to do better. Will you forgive me? And if I behave like a man in future do you think you can go back to the old love, dear?”

The children had run out to see if Nannie had left them, and the room was very still; no sound but the ticking of the clock, and once in awhile a deep sob that would not be crushed back.

Great events turn on small pivots ofttimes, and so it happened that there were some changes in that little house after this.

Curiously enough, not long after Nannie's story a great tortoise-shell tomcat appeared in the Earnest home. No one thought of asking Mrs. Earnest if she had brought him there, and the others knew nothing about him. More curiously still, when Mr. Earnest began to grow sulky or ugly, Sir Tortoise Shell would often walk into the room and glare at him with his big, ugly eyes.

“Jennie, I believe I'll shoot that cat!” he exclaimed one day. “I can't bear him!”

“Oh, no, I couldn't let you hurt him, Gerald,” said Mrs. Earnest, who had become quite a spirited little woman in the new and happy atmosphere she breathed now. “I'm so fond of him.”

She looked demure enough as she stooped to pet the cat, but really her eyes were sparkling with mischief, for truth to tell, she had heard Nannie's story and was ready to adopt a big yellow cat as her coat of arms.

Mr. Earnest strolled out on to the gallery. He too was thinking of that story.

“I could have stood the trouncing,” he said to himself, “and the hanging, and even the drawing and quartering; but when it came to sending all four quarters to the penitentiary for life, what could a poor devil do but cave in?”