University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
SCHEMING.

“Mother, where's 'Lena's dress? Hasn't she got any?”
asked Anna, one morning, about two weeks before Christmas,
as she bent over a promiscuous pile of merinoes, delaines,
and plaid silks, her own and Carrie's dresses for the
coming holidays. “Say, mother, didn't you buy 'Lena any?”

Thus interrogated, Mrs. Livingstone replied, “I wonder
if you think I'm made of money! 'Lena is indebted
to me now for more than she can ever pay. As long as I
give her a home and am at so much expense in educating
her, she of course can't expect me to dress her as I do you.
There's Carrie's brown delaine and your blue one, which
I intend to have made over for her, and she ought to be
satisfied with that, for they are much better than anything
she had when she came here.”

And the lady glanced toward the spot where 'Lena sat,
admiring the new things, in which she had no share, and
longing to ask the question which Anna had asked for
her, and which had now been answered. John Jr., who
was present, and who knew that Mr. Everett had been
engaged to teach in the family long before it was known
that 'Lena was coming, now said to his cousin, who arose to
leave, “Yes, 'Lena, mother's a model of generosity, and
you'll never be able to repay her for her kindness in allowing
you to wear the girls' old duds, which would otherwise
be given to the blacks, and in permitting you to recite
to Mr. Everett, who, of course, was hired on your
account.”

The slamming together of the door as 'Lena left the
room brought the young gentleman's remarks to a close,

and wishing to escape the lecture which he saw was preparing
for him, he, too, made his exit.

Christmas was coming, and with it Durward Bellmont,
and about his coming Mrs. Livingstone felt some little
anxiety. Always scheming, and always looking ahead,
she was expecting great results from this visit. Durward
was not only immensely wealthy, but was also descended
on his father's side from one of England's noblemen.
Altogether he was, she thought, a “decided catch,”
and though he was now only sixteen, while Carrie was
but thirteen, lifelong impressions had been made at even
an earlier period, and Mrs. Livingstone resolved that her
pretty daughter should at least have all the advantages
of dress with which to set off her charms. Concerning
Anna's appearance she cared less, for she had but little
hope of her, unless, indeed—but 't was too soon to think
of that—she would wait, and perhaps in good time 't would
all come round naturally and as a matter of course. So
she encouraged her daughter's intimacy with Captain Atherton,
who, until Malcolm Everett appeared, was in Anna's
estimation the best man living. Now, however, she made
an exception in favor of her teacher, “who,” as she told
the captain, “neither wore false teeth, nor kept in his
pocket a pair of specks, to be slily used when he fancied
no one saw him.”

Captain Atherton coughed, colored, laughed, and saying
that “Mr. Everett was a nicish kind of a boy,” swore
eternal enmity toward him, and under the mask of friendship—watched!
Eleven years before, when Anna was a
baby, Mrs. Livingstone had playfully told the captain,
who was one day deploring his want of a wife, that if he
would wait he should have her daughter. To this he
agreed, and the circumstance, trivial as it was, made a
more than ordinary impression upon his mind; and though

he as yet had no definite idea that the promise would
ever be fulfilled, the little girl was to him an object of uncommon
interest. Mrs. Livingstone knew this, and whenever
Anna's future prospects were the subject of her
meditations, she generally fell back upon that fact as an
item not to be despised.

Now, however, her thoughts were turned into another
and widely different channel. Christmas week was to be
spent by Durward Bellmont partly at Captain Atherton's
and partly at her own house, and as Mrs. Livingstone was
not ignorant of the effect a becoming dress has upon a
pretty face, she determined that Carrie should, at least,
have that advantage. Anna, too, was to fare like her sister,
while no thought was bestowed upon poor 'Lena's
wardrobe, until her husband, who accompanied her to
Frankfort, suggested that a certain pattern, which he
fancied would be becoming to 'Lena, should be purchased.

With an angry scowl, Mrs Livingstone muttered something
about “spending so much money for other folks'
young ones.” Then remembering the old delaines, and
knowing by the tone of her husband's voice that he was
in earnest, she quickly rejoined, “Why, 'Lena's got two
new dresses at home.”

Never doubting his wife's word, Mr. Livingstone was
satisfied, and nothing more was said upon the subject.
Business of importance made it necessary for him to go
for a few weeks to New Orleans, and he was now on his
way thither, his wife having accompanied him as far as
Frankfort, where he took the boat, while she returned
home. When 'Lena left the room after learning that she
had no part in the mass of Christmas finery, she repaired
to the arbor bridge, where she had wept so bitterly on
the first day of her arrival, and which was now her favorite
resort. For a time she sat watching the leaping waters,

swollen by the winter rains, and wondering if it were
not possible that they started at first from the pebbly
spring which gushed so cool and clear from the mountain
side near her old New England home. This reminded
her of where and what she was now—a dependent on
the bounty of those who wished her away, and who almost
every day of her life made her feel it so keenly, too.
Not one among them loved her except Anna, and would
not her affection change as they grew older? Then her
thoughts took another direction. Durward Bellmont was
coming—but did she wish to see him? Could she bear
the sneering remarks which she knew Carrie would make
concerning herself? And how would he be affected by
them? Would he ask her of her father? and if so, what
had she to say?

Many a time had she tried to penetrate the dark mystery
of her birth, but her grandmother was wholly noncommittal.
Once, too, when her uncle seemed kinder
than usual, she had ventured to ask him of her father, and
with a frown he had replied, that “the least she knew of
him the better!” Still 'Lena felt sure that he was a good
man, and that some time or other she would find him.

All day long the clouds had been threatening rain,
which began to fall soon after 'Lena entered the arbor,
but so absorbed was she in her own thoughts, that she did
not observe it until her clothes were perfectly dampened;
then starting up, she repaired to the house. For several
days she had not been well, and this exposure brought on
a severe cold, which confined her to her room for nearly
two weeks. Meantime the dress-making process went on,
Anna keeping 'Lena constantly apprised of its progress,
and occasionally wearing in some article for her inspection.
This reminded 'Lena of her own wardrobe, and
knowing that it would not be attended to while she was

sick, she made such haste to be well, that on Thursday at
tea-time she took her accustomed seat at the table. After
supper she lingered awhile in the parlor, hoping something
would be said, but she waited in vain, and was about
leaving, when a few words spoken by Carrie in an adjoining
room caught her ear and arrested her attention.

They were—“And so 'Lena came down to-night. I
dare say she thinks you'll set Miss Simpson at work upon
my old delaine.”

“Perhaps so,” returned Mrs Livingstone, “but I don't
see how Miss Simpson can do it, unless you put off having
that silk apron embroidered.

“I shan't do any such thing,” said Carrie, glad of an excuse
to keep 'Lena out of the way. “What matter is it
if she don't come down when the company are here? I'd
rather she wouldn't, for she's so green and awkward, and
Durward is so fastidious in such matters, that I'd rather
he wouldn't know she's a relative of ours! I know he'd
tell his mother, and they say she is very particular about
his associates.”

“Lena's first impulse was to defy her cousin to her
face—to tell her she had seen Durward Bellmont, and
that he didn't laugh at her either. But her next thought
was calmer and more rational. Possibly under Carrie's
influence he might make fun of her, and resolving on no
condition whatever to make herself visible while he was
in the house, she returned to her room, and throwing herself
upon the bed, wept until she fell asleep.

“When is Miss Simpson going to fix 'Lena's dress?”
asked Anna, as day after day passed, and nothing was
said of the brown delaine.

For an instant Miss Simpson's nimble fingers were still,
as she awaited the answer to a question which had occurred
to her several times. She was a kind-hearted, intelligent

girl, and at a glance had seen how matters stood.
She, too, was an orphan, and her sympathies were all enlisted
in behalf of the neglected 'Lena. She had heard
from Anna of the brown delaine, and in her own mind
she had determined that it should be fitted with the utmost
taste of which she was capable.

Her speculations, however, were brought to a close by
Mrs. Livingstone's saying, in reply to Anna, that 'Lena
seemed so wholly uninterested, and cared so little about
seeing the company, she had decided not to have the
dress fixed until after Christmas week.”

The fiery expression of two large, glittering eyes,
which at that moment peered in at the door, convinced
Miss Simpson that her employer had hardly told the truth,
and she secretly determined that 'Lena should have the
dress whether she would or not. Accordingly, the next
time she and Anna were alone, she asked for the delaine,
entrusting her secret to Anna, who, thinking no harm,
promised to keep it from her mother. But to get 'Lena
fitted was a more difficult matter. Her spirit was roused,
and for a time she resisted their combined efforts. At
last, however, she yielded, and by working late at night
in her own room, Miss Simpson managed to finish the
dress, in which 'Lena really looked better than did either
of her cousins in their garments of far richer materials.
Still she was resolved not to go down, and Anna, fearing
what her mother might say, dared not urge her very
strongly, hoping, though, that “something would turn
up.”

Durward Bellmont, Nellie Douglass, and Mabel Ross
had arrived at Captain Atherton's. Mrs. Livingstone
and her daughters had called upon them, inviting them
to spend a few days at Maple Grove, where they were to

meet some other young people “selected from the wealthiest
families in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Livingstone said,
at the same time patting the sallow cheek of Mabel, whose
reputed hundred thousand she intended should one day
increase the importance of her own family.

The invitation was accepted—the day had arrived, the
guests were momentarily expected, and Carrie, before the
long mirror, was admiring herself, alternately frowning
upon John Jr., who was mimicking her “airs,” and scolding
Anna for fretting because 'Lena could not be induced
to join them. Finding that her niece was resolved not to
appear, Mrs. Livingstone, for look's sake, had changed her
tactics, saying, “'Lena could come down if she chose—
she was sure there was nothing to prevent.”

Knowing this, Anna had exhausted all her powers of
eloquence upon her cousin. But she still remained inexorable,
greatly to the astonishment of her grandmother,
who for several days had been suffering from a rheumatic
affection, notwithstanding which she “meant to hobble
down if possible, for” said she, “I want to see this Durward
Bellmont. Matilda says he's got Noble blood in
him. I used to know a family of Nobles in Massachusetts,
and I think like as not he's some kin!”

Carrie, to whom this remark was made, communicated
it to her mother, who forthwith repaired to Mrs. Nichols'
room, telling her “that 't was a child's party,” and hinting
pretty strongly that she was neither wanted nor expected
in the parlor, and would confer a great favor by
keeping aloof.

“Wall, wall,” said Mrs. Nichols, who had learned to
dread her daughter's displeasure, “I'd as lief stay up here
as not, but I do want 'Lena to jine 'em. She's young,
and would enjoy it.”

Without a word of answer Mrs. Livingstone walked

away, leaving 'Lena more determined than ever not to
go down. When the evening at last arrived, Anna insisted
so strongly upon her wearing the delaine, for fear
of what might happen, that 'Lena consented, curling her
hair with great care, and feeling a momentary thrill of
pride as she saw how well she looked.

“When we get nicely to enjoying ourselves,” said
Anna, “you come down and look through the glass door,
for I do want you to see Durward, he's so handsome—but
there's the carriage—I must go;” and away ran Anna
down the stairs, while 'Lena flew to one of the front windows
to see the company as they rode up.

First came Captain Atherton's carriage, and in it the
captain and his maiden sister, together with a pale, sickly-looking
girl, whom 'Lena knew to be Mabel Ross. Behind
them rode Durward Bellmont, and at his side, on a
spirited little pony was another girl, thirteen or fourteen
years of age, but in her long riding-dress looking older,
because taller. 'Lena readily guessed that this was Nellie
Douglass, and at a glance she recognized the Durward
of the cars—grown handsomer and taller since then, she
thought. With a nimble bound he leaped from his saddle,
kissing his hand to Carrie, who with her sunniest smile
ran past him to welcome Nellie. A pang, not of jealousy,
but of an undefined something, shot through 'Lena's heart,
and dropping the heavy curtain, she turned away, while
the tears gathered thickly in her large, brown eyes.

“Where's 'Lena,” asked Captain Atherton, of Anna,
warming his red fingers before the blazing grate, and
looking round upon the group of girls gathered near.

Glancing at her mother, Anna replied, “She says she
don't want to come down.”

“Bashful,” returned the captain, while Nellie Douglass
asked, “who 'Lena was,” at the same time returning

the pinch which John Jr. had slily given her as a mode of
showing his preference, for Nellie was his favorite.

Fearful of Anna's reply, Mrs. Livingstone answered,
carelessly, “She's the child of one of Mr. Livingstone's
poor relations, and we've taken her awhile out of charity.”

At any other time John Jr. would doubtless have questioned
his mother's word, but now so engrossed was he
with the merry, hoydenish Nellie, that he scarcely heard
her remark, or noticed the absence of 'Lena. With the
exception of his cousin, Nellie was the only girl whom
John Jr. could endure—“the rest,” he said, “were so
stuck up and affected.”

For Mabel Ross, he seemed to have a particular aversion.
Not because she was so very disagreeable, but because
his mother continually reminded him of what she
hoped would one day be, “and this,” he said, “was
enough to make a `feller' hate a girl.” So, without considering
that Mabel was not to blame, he ridiculed her
unmercifully, calling her “a bundle of medicine,” and
making fun of her thin, sallow face, which really appeared
to great disadvantage when contrasted with Nellie's bright
eyes and round, rosy cheeks.

When the guests were all assembled, Carrie, not knowing
whether Durward Bellmont would relish plays, seated
herself demurely upon the sofa, prepared to act the dignified
young lady, or any other character she might think
necessary.

“Get up, Cad,” said John Jr. “Nobody's going to act
like they were at a funeral; get up, and let's play
something.”

As the rest seemed to be similarly inclined, Carrie
arose, and erelong the joyous shouts reached 'Lena, making
her half wish that she, too, was there. Remembering
Anna's suggestion of looking through the glass door,

she stole softly down the stairs, and stationing herself behind
the door, looked in on the scene. Mr. Everett, usually
so dignified, had joined in the game, claiming “forfeits”
from Anna more frequently than was considered at
all necessary by the captain, who for a time looked jealously
on, and then declaring himself as young as any of
them, joined them with a right good will.

“Blind man's buff,” was next proposed, and 'Lena's heart
leaped up, for that was her favorite game. John Jr. was
first blinded, but he caught them so easily that all declared
he could see, and loud were the calls for Durward
to take his place. This he willingly did and whether he
could see or not, he suffered them to pass directly under
his hands, thus giving entire satisfaction. On account of
the heat of the rooms, Anna, on passing the glass door,
threw it open, and the next time Durward came round he
marched directly into the hall, seizing 'Lena, who was
trying to hide.

Feeling her long curls, he exclaimed, “Anna, you are
caught.”

“No, I ain't Anna; let me go,” said 'Lena, struggling
to escape.

This brought all the girls to the spot, while Durward,
snatching the muffler from his eyes, looked down with astonishment
upon the trembling 'Lena, who would have
escaped had she not been so securely hemmed in.

“Ain't you ashamed, Lena, to be peeking?” asked
Carrie, while Durward repeated—“'Lena! 'Lena! I've
seen her before in the cars between Springfield and Albany;
but how came she here?”

“She lives here—she's our cousin,” said Anna, notwithstanding
the twitch given to her sleeve by Carrie, who did
not care to have the relationship exposed.

“Your cousin,” said Durward, “and where's the old
lady who was with her?”

“The one she called granny?” asked John Jr., on purpose
to rouse up his fiery little cousin.

“No, I don't call her granny, neither—I've quit it,”
said 'Lena, angrily, adding, as a sly hit at Kentucky talk,
“she's up stars, sick with the rheumatism.”

“Good,” said Durward, “but why are you not down
here with us?”

“I didn't want to come,” was her reply; and Durward,
leading her into the parlor, continued, “but now
that you are here, you must stay.”

“Pretty, isn't she,” said Nellie, as the full blaze of the
chandelier fell upon 'Lena.

“Rath-er,” was Carrie's hesitating reply.

She felt annoyed that 'Lena should be in the parlor, and
provoked that Durward should notice her in any way,
and at the first opportunity she told him “how much she
both troubled and mortified them, by her vulgarity and
obstinacy,” adding that “she had a most violent temper.”
From Nellie she had learned that Durward particularly
disliked passionate girls, and for this reason she strove to
give him the impression that 'Lena was such an one.
Once or twice she fancied him half inclined to disbelieve
her, as he saw how readily 'Lena joined in their amusements,
and how good-humoredly she bore John Jr.'s teasing,
and then she hoped something would occur to prove
her words true. Her wish was gratified.

The next day was dark and stormy, confining the young
people to the house. About ten o'clock the negro who
had been to the post-office returned, bringing letters for
the family, among which was one for 'Lena, so curious in
its shape and superscription, that even the negro grinned
as he handed it out. 'Lena was not then present, and Carrie,

taking the letter, exclaimed, “Now if this isn't the
last specimen from Yankeedom. Just listen,—” and she
spelled out the direction—“To Mis Hell-eny Rivers,
state of kentucky, county of woodford, Dorsey post offis,
care of Mis nichals.”

Unobserved by any one, 'Lena had entered the parlor
in time to hear every word, and when Carrie, chancing,
to espy her, held out the letter, saying, “Here, Helleny,
I guess this came from down east,” she darted forward,
and striking the letter from Carrie's hand, stamped upon
it with her foot, declaring “she'd never open it in the
world,” and saying “they might do what they pleased
with it for all of her.”

“Read it—may we read it?” eagerly asked Carrie,
delighted to see 'Lena doing such justice to her reputation.

“Yes, read it!” almost screamed 'Lena, and before any
one could interpose a word, Carrie had broken the seal
and commenced reading, announcing, first, that it came
from “Joel Slocum!” It was as follows:

Up to this point 'Lena had stood immovable, amid the
loud shouts of her companions, but the fire of a hundred
volcanoes burned within and flashed from her eyes. And
now springing forward, she caught the letter from Carrie's
hand, and inflicting a long scratch upon her forehead, fled
from the room. Had not Durward Bellmont been present,
Carrie would have flown after her cousin, to avenge
the insult, and even now she was for a moment thrown off
her guard, and starting forward, exclaimed, “the tigress!”

Drawing his fine cambric handkerchief from his pocket,
Durward gently wiped the blood from her white brow,
saying “Never mind. It is not a deep scratch.”

“I wish 't was deeper,” muttered John Jr. “You'd
no business to serve her so mean.”

An angry retort rose to Carrie's lips, but, just in time
to prevent its utterance, Durward also spoke, saying,
“It was too bad to tease her so, but we were all more or
less to blame, and I'm not sure but we ought to apologize.”

Carrie felt that she would die, almost, before she'd
apologize to such as 'Lena, and still she thought it might
be well enough to give Durward the impression that she
was doing her best to make amends for her fault. Accordingly,
the next time her cousin appeared in the parlor
she was all smiles and affability, talking a great deal to
'Lena, who returned very short but civil answers, while
her face wore a look which Durward construed into defiance
and hatred of everybody and everything.

“Too passionate,” thought he, turning from her to Carrie,
whose voice, modulated to its softest tones, rang out
clear and musical, as she sported and laughed with her

moody cousin, appearing the very essence of sweetness
and amiability!

Pity he could not have known how bitterly 'Lena had
wept over her hasty action—not because he witnessed it,
but because she knew it was wrong! Pity he could not
have read the tear-blotted note, which she laid on Carrie's
work-box, and in which was written, “I am sorry, Carrie,
that I hurt you so. I didn't know what I was about, but I
will try and not get so angry again.” Pity, too, that he
did not see the look of contempt with which Carrie perused
this note; and when the two girls accidentally met
in the upper hall, and 'Lena laid her hand gently on Carrie's
arm, it is a thousand pities he was not present to see
how fiercely she was repulsed, Carrie exclaiming, “Get
out of my sight! I hate you, and so do all of them down
stairs, Durward in particular.”

Had he known all this he would have thought differently
of 'Lena, who, feeling that she was not wanted in
the parlor, kept herself entirely aloof, never again appearing
during the remainder of his stay. Once Durward
asked for her, and half laughingly Carrie replied, that
“she had not yet recovered from her pouting fit.” Could
he have known her real occupation, he might have changed
his mind again. The stormy weather had so increased
Mrs. Nichols' rheumatic complaint, that now, perfectly
crippled, she lay as helpless as a child, carefully nursed by
'Lena and old Aunt Polly, who, spite of her own infirmities,
had hobbled in to wait upon her friend. Never but
once did Mrs. Livingstone go near her mother's sick-room—“the
smell of herbs made her faint,” she said!
But to do her justice, we must say that she gave Polly
unqualified permission to order anything she pleased for
the invalid.

Toward the close of the third day, the company left.

Nellie Douglass, who really liked 'Lena, and wished to bid
her good-by, whispered to John Jr., asking him to show her
the way to his cousin's room. No one except members
of the family had ever been in Mrs. Nichols' apartment,
and for a moment John Jr. hesitated, knowing well that
Nellie could not fail to observe the contrast it presented
to the other richly-furnished chambers.

“They ought to be mortified—it'll serve 'em right,”
he thought, at last, and motioning Nellie to follow him,
he silently led the way to his grandmother's room, where
their knock was answered by Aunt Polly's gruff voice,
which bade them “come in.”

They obeyed, but Nellie started back when she saw
how greatly inferior was this room to the others around it.
In an instant her eye took in everything, and she readily
comprehended the whole.

“It isn't my doings, by a jug-full!” whispered John Jr.,
himself reddening as he noted the different articles of furniture
which had never before seemed so meager and
poor.

On the humble bed, in a half-upright position, lay Mrs.
Nichols, white as the snowy cap-border which shaded her
face. Behind her sat 'Lena, supporting her head, and
when Nellie entered, she was carefully pushing back the
few gray locks which had fallen over the invalid's forehead,
her own bright curls mingling with them, and resting,
some on her neck, and some on her grandmother's
shoulder. A deep flush dyed her cheeks when she saw
Nellie, who thought she had never looked upon a sight
more beautiful.

“I did not know your grandmother was ill,” said she,
coming forward and gently touching the swollen hand
which lay outside the counterpane.

Mrs. Nichols was not too ill to talk, and forthwith she commenced

a history of her malady, beginning at the time she
first had it when 'Lena's mother was a year and a day old,
frequently quoting Nancy Scovandyke, and highly entertaining
Nellie, who listened until warned by the sound
of the carriage, as it came round to the door, that she
must go.

“We are going back to Uncle Atherton's,” said she,
“but I wanted to bid you good-by, and ask you to visit
me in Frankfort with your cousins. Will you do so?”

This was wholly unexpected to 'Lena, who, without replying,
burst into tears. Nellie hardly knew what to do.
She seldom cried herself—she did not like to see others
cry—and still she did not blame 'Lena, for she felt that
she could not help it. At last, taking her hand, she bade
her farewell, asking if she should not carry a good-by to
the others.

“Yes, to Mabel,” said 'Lena.

“And not Durward?” asked Nellie.

With something of her old spirit 'Lena answered, “No;
he hates me—Carrie says so.”

“Cad's a fool,” muttered John Jr., while Nellie rejoined,
“Durward never hated anybody, and even if he
did, he would not say so—I mean to tell him;” and with
another good-by she was gone.

On the stairs she met Durward, who was looking for
her, and asked where she had been.

“To bid 'Lena good-by; don't you want to go, too?”
said Nellie.

“Why, yes, if you are sure she won't scratch my eyes
out,” he returned, gayly, following his cousin.

“I reckon I'd better tell 'Lena to come out into the
hall—she may not want you in there,” said John Jr., and
hastening forward he told his cousin what was wanted.

Oh, how 'Lena longed to go, but pride, and the remembrance

of Carrie's words, prevented her, and coldly answering,
“No, I don't wish to see him,” she turned away
to hide the tears and pain which those words had cost
her.

This visit to Grandma Nichols' room was productive
of some good, for John Jr. did not fail of repeating to his
mother the impression which he saw was made on Nellie's
mind, adding, that “though Durward did not venture in,
Nellie would of course tell him all about it. And then,”
said he, “I wouldn't give much for his opinion of your
treatment of your mother.

Angry, because she felt the truth of what her son
said, Mrs. Livingstone demanded “what he'd have her
do.”

“Do?” he repeated, “give grandmother a decent
room, or else fix that one up, so it won't look like the old
scratch had been having a cotillon there. Paper and paint
it, and make it look decent.”

Upon this last piece of advice Mrs. Livingstone resolved
to act, for recently several vague rumors had reached her
ear, touching her neglect of her mother-in-law, and she
began herself to think it just possible that a little of her
money would be well expended in adding to the comfort
of her husband's mother. Accordingly, as soon as Mrs.
Nichols was able to sit up, her room underwent a thorough
renovation, and though no great amount of money was
expended upon it, it was fitted up with so much taste
that the poor old lady, whom John Jr., 'Lena, and Anna
had adroitly kept out of the way until her room was finished,
actually burst into tears when first ushered into her
light, airy apartment, in which everything looked so cheerful
and pleasant.

“'Tilda has now and then a good streak,” said she,
while Aunt Milly, who had taken a great deal of interest

in the repairing of the room, felt inclined to change her
favorite theory with regard to her mistress' future
condition.