"On the right are the horse stables," said Ralph, "and in those stalls there should be a row of prancing chargers and ambling steeds; and on the great empty floor, which you see over here, there should be the carriages,—the coupe, the family carriage, the light wagon, the pony phaeton, the top buggy, and all the other vehicles which people in the country need. But, alas! you only see that old hay-wagon, which I am sure would fall to pieces if horses attempted to pull it, and that affair with two big wheels and a top. I think they call it a gig, and I believe old Mr. Butterwood used to drive about in it."

"Indeed he did," said Dora. "I remember seeing him when I was a little girl. It must be very comfortable. I should think your sister and you would enjoy driving in that. In a gig, you know, you can go anywhere—into wood-roads, and all sorts of places where you couldn't turn around with anything with four wheels. And how nice it is that it has a top. I've heard it said that Mr. Butterwood would always have everything comfortable for himself. Perhaps your sister is in some of these smaller rooms. What are they?"

"Oh, harness rooms, and I know not what," answered Ralph, and then he called out:—

"Miriam!" His voice was of a full, rich tone, and it was echoed from the bare walls and floors.

"If my sister is in the barn at all," said Ralph, "I think she must be on the floor above this, for there is the hay, and the hens' nests, if there are any—"

"Oh, let us go up there," said Dora; "that is just where we ought to find her."

There was not the least affectation in Dora's delight, as she stood on the wide upper floor of the barn. Its great haymows rose on either side, not piled to the roof as before, but with enough hay left over from former years to fill the air with that delightful scent of mingled cleanliness and sweetness which belongs to haylofts. At the back was a wide open door with a bar across it, out of which she saw a far-stretching landscape, rich with varied colors of spring, and through a small side door at the other end of the floor, which there was level with the ground, came a hen, clucking to a brood of black-eyed, downy little chicks, which she was bringing in for the night to the spacious home she had chosen for them.

Whether or not Dora would have enjoyed all this as much had she been alone is a point not necessary to settle, but she was a true country girl, and had loved chickens, barns, and hay from her babyhood up. She stepped quickly to the open door, and she and Ralph leaned upon the bar and looked out upon the beautiful scene.

"How charming it will be," she said, "for your sister to come here and sit with her reading or sewing. She can look out and see you, almost wherever you happen to be on your farm."

"I don't believe Miriam will be content to sit still and watch anybody," replied Ralph. "I wonder where she can be;" and twice he called her, once directing his voice up toward the haymows and once out into the open air. Dora still leaned on the bar and looked out.

"It would be nice if we could see her walking somewhere in the fields," she said, and she and Ralph both swept the landscape with their eyes, but they saw nothing like a moving girl in shade or sunshine.

Miss Bannister was not in the least embarrassed, as she stood here with this young man whom she had met such a little time before. She did not altogether feel that she was alone with him. The thought that any moment the young man's sister might make one of the party, produced a sensation not wholly unlike that of knowing she was already there.

The view of the far-off hills with the shadows across their sides and their forest-covered tops glistening in the sunshine was very attractive, and there was a blossomy perfume in the outside air which mingled charmingly with the hay-scents from within; but Dora felt that it would not do to protract her pleasure in these things, especially as she noticed signs of a slight uneasiness on the face of her companion. Probably he wanted to go and look for his sister, so they walked slowly over the floor of the great hayloft, and out of the little door where the hen and chickens had come in, and Ralph accompanied the young lady to her carriage.

"I am sure I shall find Thomas and the horses fast asleep," said she, "for I have made a long call, or, at least, have tried to make one, and you must tell your sister that my stay proves how much I wanted to see her. I hope she will call on me the first time she comes to Thorbury."

"Oh, I shall drive her over on purpose," said Ralph, and, with a smile, Miss Bannister declared that would be charming.

When the carriage had rolled upon the smooth road outside of Cobhurst, Miss Dora drew off her left glove and looked at her wrist. "Dear me!" said she to herself, "I thought he would have squeezed those buttons entirely through my skin, but I wouldn't have said a word for anything. I wonder what sort of a girl his sister is. If she resembles him, I know I shall like her."



CHAPTER VIII

MRS. TOLBRIDGE'S REPORT IS NOT ACCEPTED

A few days after Miss Bannister's call at Cobhurst, it was returned by Ralph and Miriam, who drove to Thorbury with the brown mare and the gig. To their disappointment, they found that the young lady was not at home, and the communicative maid informed them that she had gone to the city to help Mrs. Tolbridge to get a new cook.

They went home by the way of the Witton house, and there they found Miss Panney at home. The old lady was very much interested in Miriam, whom she had not before seen out of bed. She scrutinized the girl from hat to boots.

"What do you want me to call you, my dear?" she asked. "Don't you honestly think you are too young to be called Miss Haverley?"

"I think it would be very well if you were to call me Miriam," said the other, who was of the opinion that Miss Panney was old enough to call any woman by her Christian name.

The conversation was maintained almost entirely by the old lady and Ralph, for Miriam was silent and very solemn. Once she broke in with a question:—

"What kind of a person is Miss Bannister?" she asked. Miss Panney gave a short laugh.

"Oh, she is a charming person," she answered, "pretty, good-humored, well educated, excellent taste in dress and almost everything, and very lively and pleasant to talk to. I am very fond of her."

"I am afraid," said Miriam, "that she is too old and too fine for me," and turning to a photograph album she began to study the family portraits.

"Your sister's ideas are rather girlish as yet," said Miss Panney, "but housekeeping at Cobhurst will change all that;" and then she went on with her remarks concerning the Haverley and Butterwood families, a subject upon which Ralph was not nearly so well informed as she was.

When the brother and sister had driven away, Miss Panney reflected that the visit had given her two pieces of information. One was that the Haverley girl was a good deal younger than she had thought her, and the other was that Mrs. Tolbridge was really trying to get a new cook. The first point she did not consider with satisfaction.

"It is a pity," she thought, "that Dora and his sister are not likely to be friends. That would help wonderfully. This schoolgirl, probably jealous of the superiority of grown-up young ladies, may be very much in the way. I am sorry the case is not different."

In regard to the other point the old lady was very well satisfied, and determined to go soon to see what success Mrs. Tolbridge had had.

About the middle of the next forenoon, Miss Panney tied her horse in front of the Tolbridge house and entered unceremoniously, as she was in the habit of doing. She found the doctor's wife standing by the back-parlor window looking out on the garden. When the old lady had seated herself she immediately proceeded to business.

"Well, Kitty," said she, "what sort of a time did you have yesterday?"

"A very discouraging and disagreeable one," said Mrs. Tolbridge. "I might just as well have stayed at home."

"You don't mean to say," asked Miss Panney, "that nobody answered your advertisement?"

"When I reached the rooms of the Non-Resident Club, where the applicants were to call—"

"That's the first time," interrupted Miss Panney, "that I ever heard that that Club was of the slightest use."

"It wasn't of any use this time," said the other; "for although I found several women there who came before the hour appointed, and at least a dozen came in the course of the morning, not one of them would do at all. I was just now looking out at our asparagus bed, and wondering if any of those beautiful heads would ever be cooked properly. The woman in our kitchen knows that she is to depart, and she is in a terribly bad temper, and this she puts into her cooking. The doctor is almost out of temper himself. He says that he has pretty good teeth, but that he cannot bite spite."

Miss Panney now appeared to be getting out of temper.

"I must say, Kitty," she said, in a tone of irritation, "that I do not understand how it was that out of the score or more of applicants, you could not find a better cook than the good-for-nothing creature you have now. What was the matter with them?"

"Everything, it seemed to me," answered Mrs. Tolbridge. "Now here is Dora. She was with me yesterday, and you can ask her about the women we saw."

Miss Panney attached no value whatever to the opinions, in regard to domestic service, of the young lady who had just entered the room, and she asked her no questions. Miss Bannister, however, did not seem in the least slighted, and sat down to join the chat.

"I suppose," said Miss Panney, sarcastically, "that you tried to find that woman that the doctor used to say he wanted: a woman who had committed some great crime, who could find no relief from her thoughts but in constant work, work, work."

Mrs. Tolbridge smiled.

"No, I did not look for her; nor did I try to find the person who was of a chilly disposition and very susceptible to draughts. We used to want one of that sort, but she should be a waitress. But, seriously, there were objections to every one of them. Religion was a great obstacle. The churches of Thorbury are not designed for the consciences of city servants. There was no Lutheran Church for the Swedes; and the fact that the Catholic Church was a mile from our house, with no street-cars, settled the question for most of them. The truth is, none of them wanted to come into the country, unless they could get near Newport or some other suitable summer resort."

"But there was that funny old body in a shawl," said Dora, "who made no objections to churches, or anything else in fact, as soon as she found out your husband wasn't in trade."

"True," replied Mrs. Tolbridge; "she didn't object, but she was objectionable."

Miss Panney was beginning to fasten her wrap about her. She had heard quite enough, but still she deigned to snap out:—

"What was the matter with her?"

"Oh, she was entirely out of the question," said the lady of the house. "In the first place, she was the widow of a French chef, or somebody of that sort, and has a wonderful opinion of her abilities. She understands all kinds of cooking,—plain or fancy."

"And even butter," said Dora; "she said she knew all about that."

"Yes; and she understood how butcher's meat should be cut, and the choosing of poultry, and I know not what else besides."

"And only asked," cried Dora, laughing, "if your husband was in trade; and when she heard that he was a professional man, was perfectly willing to come."

Miss Panney turned toward Mrs. Tolbridge, sat up very straight in her chair, and glared.

"Was not this the very woman you were looking for? Why didn't you take her?"

"Take her!" repeated Mrs. Tolbridge, with some irritation. "What could I do with a woman like that? She would want enormous wages. She would have to have kitchen maids, and I know not whom, besides, to wait on her; and as for our plain style of living, she could not be expected to stand that. She would be entirely out of place in a house like this."

"Her looks were enough to settle her case," said Dora. "You never saw such an old witch; she would frighten the horses."

"Kitty Tolbridge," said Miss Panney, severely, "did you ask that woman if she wanted high wages, if she required kitchen maids, if she would be satisfied to cook for your family?"

"No, I didn't," said the other; "I knew it was of no use. It was plain to see that she would not do at all."

"Did you get her address?"

"Yes," said Dora; "she gave me a card as we were going out, and insisted on my taking it. It is in my bag at home."

Miss Panney was silent for a moment, and was evidently endeavoring to cool her feelings so as to speak without indignation.

"Kitty Tolbridge," she said presently, "I think you have deliberately turned your back on one of the greatest opportunities ever offered to a woman with a valuable husband. There are husbands who have no value, and who might as well be hurried to their graves by indigestion as in any other way, but the doctor is not one of these. Now, whatever you know of that woman proves her to be the very person who should be in your kitchen at this moment; and whatever you have said against her is all the result of your imagination. If I were in your place, I would take the next train for the city; and before I closed my eyes this night, I would know whether or not such a prize as that were in my reach. I say prize because I never heard of such a chance being offered to a doctor's wife in a country town. Now what are you going to do about it, Kitty? If your regard for your husband's physical condition is not sufficient to make you look on this matter as I do, think of his soul. If you don't believe that true religion and good cooking go hand in hand, wait a year and then see what sort of a husband you will have."

Mrs. Tolbridge felt that she ought to resent this speech, that she ought to be, at least, a little angry; but when she was a small girl, Miss Panney was an old woman who sometimes used to scold her. She had not minded the scoldings very much then, and she could not bring herself to mind this scolding very much now. Occasionally she had scolded Miss Panney, and the old lady had never been angry.

"I shall not go to the city," she said, with a smile; "but I will write, and ask all the questions. Then our consciences will be easier."

Miss Panney rose to her feet.

"Do it, I beg of you," she said, "and do it this morning. And now, Dora, if you walked here, I will drive you home in my phaeton, for you ought to send that address to Mrs. Tolbridge without delay."

As the old roan jogged away from the doctor's house, Miss Panney remarked to her companion, "I needn't have hurried you off so soon, Dora, for it is three hours before the next mail will leave; but I did want Mrs. Tolbridge to sit down at once and write that letter without being interrupted by anything which you might have come to tell her. Of course, the sooner you send her the address, the better."

"The boy shall take it to her as soon as I get home," said Dora.

She very much disliked scoldings, and had not now a word to say against the old body who would frighten the horses. Desirous of turning the conversation in another direction without seeming to force it, "It seems to me," she said, "that Mr. and Miss Haverley ought to have somebody better to cook for them than old Phoebe. I have always looked upon her as a sort of a charwoman, working about from house to house, doing anything that people hired her to do."

"That's just what those Haverleys want," said Miss Panney. "At present, everything is charwork at their place, and as to their food, I don't suppose they think much about it, so that they get enough. At their age they can eat anything."

"How old is Miss Haverley?" asked Dora.

"Miss Haverley!" repeated Miss Panney, "she's nothing but a girl, with her hair down her back and her skirts a foot from the ground. I call her a child."

A shadow came over the soul of Miss Bannister.

Would it be possible, she thought, to maintain, with a girl who did not yet put up her hair or wear long skirts, the intimacy she had hoped to maintain with Mr. Haverley's sister?

Very much the same idea was in the mind of Miss Panney, but she thought it well to speak encouragingly. "I wish, for her brother's sake, the girl were older," said she: "but housekeeping will help to mature her much more quickly than if she had remained at school. And as for school," she added, "it strikes me it would be a good thing for her to go back there—after awhile."

Dora thought this a good opinion, but before she could say anything on the subject, she lifted her eyes, and beheld Ralph Haverley walking down the street toward them. He was striding along at a fine pace, and looked as if he enjoyed it.

"I declare," ejaculated Miss Bannister, "here he is himself. We shall meet him."

"He? who?" and Miss Panney looked from side to side of the road, and the moment she saw the young man, she smiled.

It pleased her that Dora should speak of him as "he," showing that the brother was in her mind when they had been talking of the sister.

Miss Panney drew up to the sidewalk, and Ralph stopped.

He was greatly pleased with the cordial greeting he received from the two ladies. These Thorbury people were certainly very sociable and kind-hearted. The sunlight was on Dora's soul now, and it sparkled in her eyes.

"It was my other hand that I gave you when I met you before," she said, with a charming smile.

"Yes," said Ralph, also with a smile, "and I think I held it an uncommonly long time."

"Indeed you did," said Dora; and they both laughed.

Miss Panney listened in surprise.

"You two seem to know each other better than I supposed," she said. "When did you become acquainted?"

"We have met but once before," replied Dora, "but that was rather a peculiar meeting." And then she told the story of her call at Cobhurst, and of the mare's forelock, and the old lady was delighted with the narration. She had never planned a match which had begun so auspiciously. These young people must be truly congenial, for already a spirit of comradeship seemed to have sprung up between them. But of course that sort of thing could not be kept up to the desirable point without the assistance of the sister. In some way or other, that girl must be managed. Miss Panney determined to give her mind to it.

With Ralph standing close by the side of the phaeton, the reins lying loose on the back of the drowsy roan, and Dora leaning forward from her seat, so as to speak better with the young man, the interview was one of considerable length, and no one seemed to think it necessary that it should be brought to a close. Ralph had come to attend to some business in the town, and had preferred to walk rather than drive the brown mare.

"Did you ever catch that delightfully obstinate creature?" cried Dora. "And did you give your sister a drive in the gig?"

"Oh, yes," said Ralph, "I easily caught her again, and I curried and polished her up myself, and trimmed her mane and tail and fetlocks, and since she has been having good meals of oats, you can hardly imagine what a sleek-looking beast she has become. We drove her into Thorbury when Miriam returned your call. I am sorry you were not at home, so that you might have seen what a change had come over Mrs. Browning."

Dora looked inquiringly.

"That is the name that Miriam has given to the mare."

Dora laughed.

"If Mrs. Browning is one of your sister's favorite poets," she said, "that will be a bond between us, for I like her poems better than I do her husband's, at least I understand them better. I wonder if your sister will ever ask me to take a drive with her in the gig? I could show her so many pretty places."

"Indeed she will," said Ralph; "but you mustn't think we are going to confine ourselves to that sedate conveyance and the old mare. The colts are old enough to be broken, and when they are ready to drive we shall have a spanking team."

"That will be splendid," exclaimed Dora. "I cannot imagine anything more inspiriting than driving with a pair of freshly broken horses."

Miss Panney gave a little sniff.

"That sort of thing," she said, "sometimes exalts one's spirit so high that it is never again burdened by the body; but all horses have to be broken, and people continue to live."

She smiled as she thought that the pair of young colts which she had taken in hand seemed to give promise of driving together most beautifully. But it would not do to stop here all the morning, and as there was no sign that Dora would tire of asking questions or Ralph of answering them, the old lady gathered up the reins.

"You mustn't be surprised, Mr. Haverley," she said, "if the ladies of Thorbury come a good deal to Cobhurst. We have more time than the gentlemen, and we all want to get well acquainted with your sister, and help her in every way that we can. Miss Bannister is going to drive over very soon and stop for me on the way, so that we shall call on her together."

When the young man had bowed and departed, and the old roan was jogging on, Dora leaned back in the phaeton and said to herself, that, without knowing it, Miss Panney was an angel. When they should go together to Cobhurst, the old lady would be sure to spend her time talking to the girl.



CHAPTER IX

JOHN WESLEY AND LORENZO DOW AT LUNCHEON

Two days after her lecture to Mrs. Tolbridge, Miss Panney was again in Thorbury, and, having finished the shopping which brought her there, she determined to go to see the doctor's wife, and find out if that lady had acted on the advice given her. She had known Mrs. Tolbridge nearly all that lady's life, and had always suspected in her a tendency to neglect advice which she did not like, after the adviser was out of the way. She did not wish to be over-inquisitive, but she intended, in some quiet way, to find out whether or not the letter about which she had spoken so strongly had been written. If it had not, she would take time to make up her mind what she should do. Kitty Tolbridge and she had scolded each other often enough, and had had many differences, but they had never yet seriously quarrelled. Miss Panney did not intend to quarrel now, but if she found things as she feared they were, she intended to interfere in a way that might make Kitty uncomfortable, and perhaps produce the same effect on herself and the doctor; but let that be as it might, she assured herself there were some things that ought to be done, no matter who felt badly about it.

She found the doctor's wife in a state of annoyance and disquiet, and was greatly surprised to be told that this condition had been caused by a note which had just been brought to her from her husband, stating that he had been called away to a distant patient, and would not be able to come home to luncheon.

"My dear Kitty!" exclaimed Miss Panney, "I should have thought you were thoroughly used to that sort of thing. I supposed a country doctor would miss his mid-day meal about half the time."

"And so he does," said Mrs. Tolbridge; "but I was particularly anxious that he should lunch at home to-day, and he promised me that he would."

"Well," said the old lady, "you will have to bear up under it as well as you can, and I hope they will give him something to eat wherever he is going."

Mrs. Tolbridge seemed occupied, and did not answer.

"Miss Panney," she said suddenly, "will you stay and take lunch with me? I should like it ever so much."

"Are you going to have strawberries?" asked Miss Panney.

Mrs. Tolbridge hesitated a little, and then replied, "Yes, we shall have them."

"Very well, then, I'll stay. The Witton strawberries are small and sour this year; and I haven't tasted a good one yet."

During the half hour which intervened before luncheon was announced, Miss Panney discovered nothing regarding the matter which brought her there. She would ask no questions, for it was Kitty Tolbridge's duty to introduce the subject, and she would give her a chance; but if she did not do it in a reasonable time, Miss Panney would not only ask questions, but state her opinion.

When she sat down at the pretty round table, arranged for two persons, Miss Panney was surprised at the scanty supply of eatables. There was the tea-tray, bread and butter, and some radishes. Her soul rose in anger.

"Slops and fruit," she said to herself. "She isn't worthy to have any sort of a husband, much less such a one as she has."

There was a vase of flowers in the centre of the table; but although Miss Panney liked flowers, at meal-times she preferred good honest food.

"Shall I give you a cup of tea?" asked her hostess.

The old lady did not care for tea, but as she considered that she could not eat strawberries on an empty stomach, she took some, and was just about to cast a critical eye on the bread, when a maid entered, bearing a dish containing two little square pieces of fish, covered with a greenish white sauce, and decorated with bits of water-cress.

As soon as Miss Panney's eyes fell upon this dish, she understood the situation—Mrs. Tolbridge had actually fallen back upon Kipper. Kipper was a caterer in Thorbury, and a good one. He was patronized by the citizens on extraordinary festive occasions, but depended for his custom principally upon certain families who came to the village for a few months in the summer, and who did not care to trouble themselves with much domestic machinery.

"Kipper, indeed," thought the old lady; "that is the last peg. A caterer's tid-bit for a hard-working man. If she would have her fish cooked properly in her own house, she could give him six times as much for half the money. And positively," she continued, in inward speech, as the maid presented the bread and butter, "Kipper's biscuit! I suppose she is going to let him provide her with everything, just as he does for those rich people on Maple Avenue."

The fish was very good, and Miss Panney ate every morsel of it, but made no remark concerning it. Instead of speaking of food, she talked of the doings of the Methodist congregation in Thorbury, who were planning to build a new church, far more expensive than she believed they could afford. She was engaged in berating Mr. Hampton, the minister, who, she declared, was actually encouraging his flock in their proposed extravagance, when the maid gave her a clean plate, and handed her a dish of sweetbread, tastefully garnished with clover blossoms and leaves. Miss Panney stopped talking, gazed at the dish for a minute, and then helped herself to a goodly portion of its contents.

"Feathers," she said to herself; "no more than froth and feathers to a man who has been working hard half a day, and as to the extravagance of such flimsy victuals—" She could keep quiet no longer, she was obliged to speak out, and she burst into a tirade against people who called themselves pious, and yet, wilfully shutting their eyes, were about to plunge into wicked wastefulness. She ate as she talked, however, and she had brought up John Wesley, and was about to give her notion of what he would have had to say about a fancy church for a Thorbury congregation, when the plates were again changed, and a dainty dish of sirloin steak, with mushrooms, and thin slices of delicately browned potatoes, was put before her.

"Well!" inwardly ejaculated the old lady, "something substantial at last. But what money this meal must have cost!"

As she cut into the thick, juicy piece of steak, which had been broiled until it was cooked enough, and not a minute more, Miss Panney's mind dropped from the consideration of congregational finances into that of domestic calculation. She knew Kipper's charges; she knew everybody's charges.

"That dish of fish," she said to herself, "was not less than sixty cents; the sweetbreads cost a dollar, if they cost a cent; this sirloin, with mushrooms, was seventy-five cents; that, with the French biscuit, is two dollars and a half for a family lunch for two people."

Miss Panney did not let her steak get cold, for she could talk and eat at the same time, and the founder of Methodism never delivered so scorching a tirade against pomp and show in professors of religion as she gave forth in his name.

Mrs. Tolbridge had been very quiet during the course of the meal, but she was now constrained to declare that she had nothing to do with the plans for the new Methodist church, and, in fact, she knew very little about them.

"Some things concern all of us," retorted Miss Panney. "Suppose Bishop White, when he was ordained and came back to this country, had found a little village—"

Her remarks were stopped by a dish of salad. The young and tender leaves of lettuce were half concealed by a mayonnaise dressing.

"This makes three dollars," thought Miss Panney, as she helped herself, "for Kipper never makes any difference, even if you send your own lettuce to be dressed." And then she went on talking about Bishop White, and what he would have thought of a little cathedral in every country town.

"But the Methodists do not have cathedrals," said Mrs. Tolbridge.

"Which makes it all the worse when they try to build their meeting-houses to look like them," replied the old lady.

It was a long time since Miss Panney had tasted any mayonnaise dressing as good as this. But she remembered that the strawberries were to come, and did not help herself again to salad.

"If one of the old Methodist circuit-riders," she said, "after toiling over miles of weary road in the rain or scorching sun, and preaching sometimes in a log meeting-house, sometimes in a barn, and often in a private house, should suddenly come upon—"

The imaginary progress of the circuit-rider was brought to a stop by the arrival of the last course of the luncheon. From a pretty glass dish uprose a wondrous structure. Within an encircling wall of delicate, candied tracery was heaped a little mound of creamy frost, the sides of great strawberries showing here and there among the veins and specks of crimson juice.

Miss Panney raised her eyes from this creation to the face of her hostess.

"Kitty," said she, "is this the doctor's birthday?"

"No," answered Mrs. Tolbridge, with a smile; "he was born in January."

"Yours then, perhaps?"

Mrs. Tolbridge shook her head.

"A dollar and a half," thought the old lady, "and perhaps more. Five dollars at the very least for the meal. If the doctor makes that much between meals, day in and day out, she ought to be thankful."

The dainty concoction to which the blazing-eyed old lady now applied herself was something she had never before tasted, and she became of the opinion that Kipper would not get up a dish of that sort, and so much of it, for less than two dollars.

"There was a Methodist preacher," she said, spoonful after spoonful of the cold and fruity concoction melting in her mouth as she spoke, "a regular apostle of the poor, named Lorenzo Dow. How I would like to have him here. He was a man who would let people know in trumpet tones, by day and by night, what he thought of wicked, wasteful prodigality, no matter how pleasant it might be, how easy it might be, or how proper in people who could afford it. Is there to be anything more, Kitty Tolbridge?"

The doctor's wife could not restrain a little laugh.

"No," she said, "there is to be nothing more, unless you will take a little tea."

Miss Panney pushed back her chair and looked at her hostess. "Tea after a meal like that! I should think not. If you had had champagne during the luncheon, and coffee afterwards, I shouldn't have been surprised."

"I did not order coffee," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "because we don't take it in the middle of the day, but—"

"You ordered quite enough," said her visitor, severely; "and I will say this for Kipper, that he never got up a better meal, although—"

"Kipper!" interrupted Mrs. Tolbridge. "Kipper had nothing to do with this luncheon. It was prepared by my new cook. It is the first meal she has given us, and I am so sorry the doctor could not be here to eat it."

Miss Panney rose from her chair, and gazed earnestly at Mrs. Tolbridge.

"What cook?" she asked, in her deepest tones.

"Jane La Fleur," was the reply; "the woman you urged me to write to. I sent the letter that afternoon. Yesterday she came to see me, and I engaged her. And while we were at breakfast this morning, she arrived with her boxes, and went to work."

"And she cooked that meal? She herself made all those things?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "she even churned the butter and made the biscuit. She says she is going to do a great deal better than this when she gets things in order."

"Better than this!" ejaculated Miss Panney. "Do you mean to say, Kitty Tolbridge, that this sort of thing is going to happen three times a day? What have you done? What sort of a creature is she? Tell me all about it this very minute."

Mrs. Tolbridge led the way to the parlor, and the two sat down.

"Now," said the doctor's wife, "suppose you finish what you were saying about the Methodist church, then—"

Miss Panney stamped her foot.

"Don't mention them!" she cried. "Let them build tower on tower, spire on spire, crypts, picture galleries, altars, confessionals, if they like. Tell me about your new cook."

"It will take a long time to tell you all about her, at least all she told me," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "for she talked to me more than an hour this morning, working away all the time. Her name is Jane La Fleur, but she does not wish any one to call her Jane. She would like the family to use her last name, and the servants can do the same, or call her 'madam.' She is the widow of two chefs, one a Florentine, named Tolati, and the other a Frenchman, La Fleur. She acted as 'second' to each of these, and in that way has thoroughly learned the art of Italian cooking, as well as the French methods. She herself is English, and she has told me about some of the great families she and her husbands lived with."

"Kitty," said Miss Panney, "I should think she was trying to impose upon you with a made-up story; but after that luncheon I will believe anything she says about her opportunities. How in the world did you get such a woman to come to you?"

"Oh, the whole business of engaging her was very simple," answered Mrs. Tolbridge. "Her last husband left her some money, and she came to this country on a visit to relatives, but she loved her art so much, she said—"

"Did she call it art?" asked Miss Panney.

"Yes, she did—that she felt she must cook, and she lived for some time with a family named Drane, in Pennsylvania, with whom the doctor used to be acquainted. She had a letter from them which fully satisfied me. On her part she said she would be content with the salary I paid my last cook."

"Did she call it salary?" exclaimed the old lady.

"That was the word she used," answered Mrs. Tolbridge, "and as I said before, the only question she asked was whether or not my husband was in trade."

"What did that matter?" asked the other.

"It seemed to matter a great deal. She said she had never yet lived with a tradesman, and never intended to. She was with Mrs. Drane, the widow of a college professor, for several months, and when the family found they could no longer afford to keep a servant who could do nothing but cook, La Fleur returned to her relatives, and looked for another position; but not until I came, she said, had any one applied who was not in trade."

"She must be an odd creature," said Miss Panney.

"She is odder than odd," was the answer. At this moment the maid came in and told Mrs. Tolbridge that the madam cook wanted to see her. The lady of the house excused herself, and in a few minutes returned, smiling.

"She wished to tell me," 'said she, "before my visitor left, that the name of the 'sweet' which she gave us at luncheon is la promesse, being merely a promise of what she is going to do, when she gets about her everything she wants."

"Kitty Tolbridge," said Miss Panney, solemnly, "whatever happens, don't mind that woman's oddity. Keep your mind on her cooking, and don't consider anything else. She is an angel, and she belongs to the very smallest class of angels that visit human beings. You may find, by the dozen, philanthropists, kind friends, helpers and counsellors, the most loving and generous; but a cook like that in a Thorbury family is as rare as—as—as—I can't think of anything so rare. I came here, Kitty, to find out if you had written to that woman, and now to discover that the whole matter has been settled in two days, and that the doors of Paradise have been opened to Dr. Tolbridge—for you know, Kitty, that the Garden of Eden was truly Paradise until they began to eat the wrong things—I feel as if I had been assisting at a miracle."



CHAPTER X

A SILK GOWN AND A BOTTLE

It was toward the end of June that Miss Dora Bannister returned from a fortnight's visit to some friends at the seashore, and she had been home a very little while, when she became convinced that her most important duty was to go to see that young girl at Cobhurst. It seemed very strange that so long a time had passed since the arrival of the Haverleys into the neighborhood, and she had never yet seen his sister. In Miss Bannister's mind there was a central point, about which clustered everything connected with Cobhurst: that point was a young man, and the house was his house, and the fields were his fields, and the girl was his sister.

It so happened, the very next day, that Herbert Bannister found it necessary to visit a lady client, who lived about four miles beyond Cobhurst, and when Dora heard this she was delighted. Her brother should take her as far as Cobhurst with him; they should start early enough to give him time to stop and call on Ralph Haverley, which he most certainly ought to do, and then he could go on and attend to his business, leaving her at Cobhurst. Even if neither the brother nor the sister were at home, she would not mind being left at that charming old place. She would take a book with her, for there were so many shady spots where she could sit and read until Herbert came back.

Herbert Bannister, whose mind was devoted to business and the happiness of his sister, was well pleased with this arrangement, and about three o'clock in the afternoon the buggy containing the two stopped in front of the Cobhurst portico.

The front door was open, and they could see through the hall and the open back door into the garden beyond.

Dora laughed as she said, "This is just what happened when I came here before,—everything wide open, as though there were no flies nor dogs nor strangers."

Herbert got out and rang the bell: he rang it twice, but no one came. Dora beckoned him to her.

"It is of no use," she said; "that also happened when I came before. They don't live in the house, at least in the daytime. But Herbert, there is a man."

At this moment, the negro Mike was seen at a little distance, hurrying along with a tin pitcher in his hand. Herbert advanced, and called to him, and Mike, with his pitcher, approached.

"The boss," he said, in response to their inquiries, "is down in the big meadow, helpin' me get in the hay. We tried to git extry help, but everybody's busy this time o' year, an' he an' me has got to step along pretty sharp to git that hay in before it rains. No, Miss, I dunno where the young lady is. She was down in the hay-field this mornin', rakin', but I 'spects she is doin' some sort of housework jes' now, or perhaps she's in the garden. I'd go an' look her up, but beggin' your pardon, I ain't got one minute to spare, the boss is waitin' for me now," and, touching his shabby old hat, Mike departed.

"What shall we do?" asked Herbert, standing by the buggy.

"I think," said Dora, slowly and decisively, as if she had fully considered the matter, "that you may as well go on, for I don't suppose it would do to disturb Mr. Haverley now. I know that when people are making hay, they can't stop for anything."

"You are right," said her brother, with a smile; "hay-making the will of a rich man on his death-bed; it must be done promptly, if it is done at all. I shall go on, of course, and you will go with me?"

"No, indeed," said Dora, preparing to get down from the buggy; "I would not want to wait for you in that tiresome old horse-hair parlor of the Dudleys. I should ever so much rather sit here, by myself, until you come back. But of course I shall see her before long. Isn't it funny, Herbert? I had to look for her when I came here before, and I suppose I shall always have to look for her whenever I come."

Her brother admitted that it was funny, and accepting her arrangement, he drove away. Dora rang the bell, and stepped into the hall. "I will wait here a little while," she said to herself, "then I will go to Phoebe's house, and ask her where she is. If she does not know, I do not in the least mind walking over to the hay-field, and calling to Mr. Haverley. It would not take him three minutes to come and tell me where I would better go to look for his sister."

At this Miss Bannister smiled a little. She would be really glad to know if Mr. Haverley would be willing to leave that important hay, and make everything wait until he came to speak to her. As she stood, she looked about her; on a table by the wall lay a straw hat trimmed with flowers, and a pair of long gloves, a good deal soiled and worn. Dora's eyes passed carelessly over these, and rested on another pair of gloves, larger and heavier.

"He hasn't driven much, yet," she said to herself, "for they look almost new. I wonder when he will break his colts. Then, I suppose, he will drive a good deal."

Dora was a girl who noticed things, and turning to the other side of the hall, she saw a larger table, and on it lay a powder-horn and a shot-flask, while in the angle of the table and the wall there stood a double-barrelled fowling-piece. This sight made her eyes sparkle; he must like to hunt and shoot. That pleased her very much. Herbert never cared for those things, but she thought a young man should be fond of guns and dogs and horses, and although she had never thought of it before, she now considered it a manly thing to be able to go out into the hay-field and work, if it happened to be necessary.

She went to the back door, and stood, looking out. There was nobody stirring about Phoebe's house, and she asked herself if it would be worth while to go over to it. Perhaps it might be as well to stroll toward the hay-field. She knew where the great meadow was, because she had looked over it when she had stood at the wide barn window with Mr. Haverley. He had pointed out a good many things to her, and she remembered them all.

But she did not go to the hay-field. Just as she was about to step out upon the back porch, she heard a door open behind her, and turning, saw, emerging from the closed apartment which contained the staircase, a strange figure. The head was that of a young girl about fourteen, with large, astonished blue eyes, and light brown hair hanging in a long plait down her back, while her form was attired in a plum-colored silk gown, very much worn, torn in some places, with several great stains in the front of the skirt, and a long and tattered train. The shoulders were ever so much too wide, the waist was ever so much too big, and the long sleeves were turned back and rolled up. In her hand the figure held a large glass bottle, from the mouth of which hung a short rubber tube, ending in a bulbous mouth-piece.

Dora could not suppress a start and an expression of surprise, but she knew this must be Miriam Haverley, and advanced toward her. In a moment she had recovered her self-possession sufficiently to introduce herself and explain the situation. Miriam took the bottle in her left hand, and held out her right to Dora.

"I have been expecting you would call," she said, "but I had no idea you were here now. The door-bell is in the basement, and I have been upstairs, trying to get dough off my hands. I have been making bread, and I had no idea it was so troublesome to get your hands clean afterwards; but I expect my dough is stickier than it ought to be, and after that I was busy getting myself ready to go out and feed a calf. Will you walk into the parlor?"

"Oh, no," cried Dora, "let me go with you to feed the calf; I shall like that ever so much better."

"It can wait just as well as not," said Miriam; "we can sit in the hall, if you like," and she moved toward an old-fashioned sofa which stood against the wall; as she did so, she stepped on the front of her voluminous silk gown, and came near falling.

"The horrid old thing!" she exclaimed; "I am always tripping over it," and as she glanced at Dora the two girls broke into a laugh. "I expect you think I look like a perfect guy," she said, as they seated themselves, "and so I do, but you see the calf is not much more than a week old, and its mother has entirely deserted it, and kicks and horns at it if it comes near her. It got to be so weak it could scarcely stand up, and I have adopted it, and feed it out of this bottle. The first time I did it I nearly ruined the dress I had on, and so I went to the garret and got this old gown, which covers me up very well, though it looks dreadfully, and is awfully awkward."

"To whom did it belong?" asked Dora. "It is made in such a queer way,—not like really old-fashioned things."

"I am sure I don't know to whom it belonged," said Miriam. "There are all sorts of things in our garret,—except things that are good for some particular purpose,—and this old gown was the best I could find to cover me up. It looks funny, but then the whole of it is funny,—calf-feeding and all."

"Why do you have to make your own bread?" asked Dora. "Don't Phoebe do that?"

"Oh, Phoebe isn't here now. She went away nearly a week ago, and I do all the work. I went to Thorbury and engaged a woman to come here; but, as that was three days ago and she has not come yet, I think she must have changed her mind."

"But why did Phoebe leave you?" exclaimed Miss Bannister. "She ought to be ashamed of herself, to leave you without any one to help you."

"Well," replied Miriam "she said she wasn't regularly employed, anyway, and there were plenty of cooks in the town that I could get, and that she was obliged to go. You see, the colored church in Thorbury has just got a new minister, and he has to board somewhere; and as soon as Phoebe heard that, she made up her mind to take a house and board him; and she did it before anybody else could get the chance. Mike, her husband, who works for us, talked to her and we talked to her, but it wasn't of any use. I think she considers it one of the greatest honors in the world to board a minister. Mike does not believe in that sort of business, but he says that Phoebe has always been in the habit of doing what she wants to, and he is getting used to it."

"But it is impossible for you to do all the work," said Dora.

"Oh, well," replied Miriam, "some of it doesn't get done, and some of it I am helped with. Mike does ever so much; he makes the fires, and carries the heavy things, and sometimes even cooks. My brother Ralph helps, too, when there is anything he can do, which is not often; but just now they are so busy with their hay that it is harder upon me than it was before. We have had soda biscuit and all that sort of thing, but I saw that Ralph was getting tired of them; and to-day I thought I would try and make some real bread,—though how it is going to turn out, I don't know."

"Come, let us go out and feed the calf," said Dora; "I really want to see how you do it. I have come to make you a good long call, you must know;" and then she explained how her brother had left her, while he went on to attend to his business.

At this Miriam was much relieved. She had been thinking that perhaps she would better go upstairs and take off that ridiculous silk dress, and entertain her visitor properly during the rest of her call; but if Miss Bannister was going to stay a good while, and if there was no coachman outside to see her and her train, there was no reason why she should not go and feed the calf, and then come back and put herself into the proper trim for the reception of visitors. It seemed strange to her, but she was positively sure that she would not have felt so much at ease with this handsomely dressed young lady, if she herself had been attired in her best clothes; but now they had met without its being possible for either Miss Bannister or herself to make any comparisons of attire. The old, draggled silk gown did not count one way or the other. It was simply a covering to keep one's clothes clean when one fed a calf. When they should return to the house, and she took off her old gown, she and her visitor would be better acquainted, and their comparative opinions of each other would not depend so much on clothes. Miriam was accustomed to making philosophical reflections concerning her relations with the rest of the world; and in regard to these relations she was at times very sensitive.



CHAPTER XI

TWO GIRLS AND A CALF

Having gone to the kitchen to fill the bottle with milk, which she had set to warm, Miriam accompanied her guest to the barn. As she walked by the side of Dora, with the bottle in one hand and the other holding up her voluminous silk robe, it was well for her peace of mind that no stately coachman sat upon a box and looked at her.

In a corner of the lower floor of the barn they found the calf, lying upon a bed of hay, and covered by a large piece of mosquito netting, which Miriam had fastened above and around him. Dora laughed as she saw this.

"It isn't every calf," she said, "that sleeps so luxuriously."

"The flies worried the poor thing dreadfully," said Miriam, "but I take it off when I feed it."

She proceeded to remove the netting, but she had scarcely done so, when she gave an exclamation that was almost a scream.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" she cried; "I believe it is dead," and down she sat upon the floor close to the calf, which lay motionless, with its head and neck extended. Down also sat Dora. She did not need to consider the hay-strewn floor and her clothes; for although she wore a very tasteful and becoming costume, it was one she had selected with reference to barn explorations, field strolls, and anything rural and dusty which any one else might be doing, or might propose. No one could tell what dusty and delightful occupation might turn up during an afternoon at Cobhurst.

"Its eye does look as if it were dead," she exclaimed. "What a pity!"

"Oh, you can't tell by that eye," said Miriam, over whose cheeks a few tears were now running. "Dr. Tolbridge says it has infantile ophthalmia in that eye, but that as soon as it gets strong enough, he can cure it. We must turn up its other eye."

She took the little creature's head in her lap, with the practicable eye uppermost. This slowly rolled in its socket, as she bent over it.

"There is life in it yet," she cried; "give me the bottle." The calf slowly rolled its eye to the position from which it had just moved, and declined to consider food.

"Oh, it must drink; we must make it drink," said Miriam. "If I open its mouth, will you put in the end of that tube? If it gets a taste of the milk, it may want more. We must not let it die. But you must be careful," she continued. "That bottle leaks all round the cork. Spread part of my skirt over you."

Dora followed this advice, for she had not considered a milk-stained lap among the contingent circumstances of the afternoon. Holding the bottle over the listless animal, she managed to get some drops on its tongue.

"Now," said Miriam, "we will put that in its mouth, and shut its jaws, and perhaps it may begin to suck. It will be perfectly dreadful if it dies."

The two girls sat close together, their eyes fixed upon the apparently lifeless head of the bovine infant.

"See!" cried Miriam, presently, "its throat moves; I believe it is sucking the milk."

Dora leaned over and gazed. It was indeed true; the calf was beginning to take an interest in food. The interest increased; the girls could see the milk slowly diminishing in the bottle. Before long the creature gave its head a little wobble. Miriam was delighted.

"That is the way it always does, when its appetite is good. We must let it drink every drop, if it will."

There they sat on the hard, hay-strewn floor, one entirely, and the other almost entirely covered with purple silk, their eyes fixed upon the bottle and the feeding calf. After a time the latter declined to take any more milk, and raised its head from Miriam's lap.

"There," she cried; "see, it can hold up its own head. I expect it was only faint from want of food. After this I will feed it oftener. It was the bread-making that made me forget it this time."

"Let us wait a minute," said Dora, who was now taking an earnest and womanly interest in the welfare of this weakling. "Perhaps after a while it may want some more." And so they continued to sit. Every motion of the calf's head, and every effort it made to bend its legs, or change its position, sent sparkles of delight into Miriam's eyes, and brightened Dora's beautiful face with sympathetic smiles.

Dora had taken up the bottle, and was about to give the calf an opportunity to continue its repast, when suddenly she stopped and sat motionless. Outside the barn, approaching footsteps could be plainly heard. They were heavy, apparently those of a man. Dora dropped the bottle, letting it roll unheeded upon the floor; then pushing Miriam's skirt from her lap, she sprang to her feet, and stepped backwards and away from the little group so quickly, that she nearly stumbled over some inequalities in the floor. Miriam looked up in astonishment.

"You needn't be frightened," she said. "How red you are! I suppose it is only Ralph."

"I was afraid it was," said Dora, in a low voice, as she shook out her skirts. "I wouldn't have had him see me that way for anything."

Now Miriam was angry. There was nothing to be ashamed of, that she could see, and it was certainly very rude in Miss Bannister to drop her bottle, and nearly push her over in her haste to get away from her and her poor calf.

The person who had been approaching the barn now entered, but it was not Ralph Haverley. It was a shorter and a stouter young man, with side whiskers.

"Why, Herbert!" exclaimed Dora, in a tone of surprise and disappointment, "have you got back already?"

Her brother smiled. "I haven't got back," he said, "for I haven't been anywhere yet. I had not gone a mile before one of the springs of the buggy broke, and it keeled over so far that I came near tumbling out. It happened at a place where there were no houses near, so I drew the buggy to the roadside, took out the horse, and led him back. I heard voices in here, and I came in. I must go and look for Mr. Haverley, and ask him to lend me a vehicle in which we may return home."

Dora stood annoyed; she did not want to return home; at least, not so soon. She had calculated on Herbert making a long stay with Mrs. Dudley.

"I suppose so," she replied, in an injured tone; "but before we say anything else, Herbert, let me introduce you to Miss Haverley."

She turned, but in the corner to which she directed her eyes, she saw only a calf; there was no young person in silk attire. The moment that Miriam perceived that the man who came in was not her brother, but the brother of some one else, her face had crimsoned, she had pushed away the unfortunate calf, and, springing to her feet, had darted into the shadows of an adjoining stall. From this, before Dora had recovered from her surprise at not seeing her, Miriam emerged in the costume of a neatly dressed school-girl, with her skirts just reaching to the tops of her boots. It had been an easy matter to slip off that expansive silk gown. She advanced with the air of defensive gravity with which she generally greeted strangers, and made the acquaintance of Mr. Bannister.

"I am sure," she said, when she had heard what had happened, "that my brother will be very glad to lend you the gig. That is the only thing we have at present which runs properly."

"A gig will do very well, indeed," said Mr. Bannister. "We could not want anything better than that; although," he continued, "I am not sure that my harness will suit a two-wheeled vehicle."

"Oh, we have gig harness," said Miriam, "and we will lend you a horse, too, if you like."

Dora now thought it was time to say something. She was irritated because Herbert had returned so soon, and because he was going to take her away before she was ready to go; and although she would have been delighted to have a drive in the Cobhurst gig, provided the proper person drove her, she did not at all wish to return to Thorbury in that ridiculous old vehicle with Herbert. In the one case, she could imagine a delightful excursion in she knew not what romantic by-roads and shaded lanes; but in the other, she saw only the jogging old gig, and all the neighbors asking what had happened to them.

"I think," she said, "it will be well to see Mr. Haverley as soon as possible. Perhaps he knows of a blacksmith's shop, where the buggy can be mended."

Herbert smiled. "Repairs of that sort," he said, "require a good deal of time. If we waited for the buggy to be put in travelling condition, we would certainly have to stay here all night, and probably the greater part of tomorrow."

In the sudden emotions which had caused her to act almost exactly as Dora had acted, Miriam had entirely forgotten her resentment toward her companion.

"Why can't you stay?" she asked. "We have plenty of room, you know."

The man of business shook his head.

"Thank you very much," he replied, "but I must be in my office this evening. I think I shall be obliged to borrow your gig. I will walk over to the field—"

"Oh, you need not take the trouble to do that," said Miriam. "They are way over there at the end of the meadow beyond the hill. The gig is here in the barn, and I can lend it to you just as well as he can."

"You are very kind," said Herbert, "and I will accept your amendment. It will be the better plan, because if I saw your brother, I should certainly interfere with his work. He might insist upon coming to help me, which is not at all necessary. Where can I find the gig, Miss Haverley?"

Miriam led her visitors to the second floor.

"There it is," she said, "but of course you must have the harness belonging to it, for your buggy harness will not hold up the shafts properly. It is in the harness room, but I do not know which it is. There is a lot of harness there, but it is mostly old and worn out."

"I will go and look," said Herbert. "I think it is only part of it that I shall need."

During this conversation Dora had said nothing. Now as she stood by the old gig, toppling forward with its shafts resting upon the floor, she thought she had never seen such a horrible, antediluvian old trap in her life. Nothing could add so much to her disappointment in going so soon, as going in that thing. If there had been anything to say which might prevent her brother from carrying out his intention, she would have said it, but so far there had been nothing.

She followed the others into the harness room, and as her eyes glanced around the walls, they rested upon a saddle hanging on its peg. Instantly she thought of something to say.

"Herbert," she remarked, not too earnestly, "I think we shall be putting our friends to a great inconvenience by borrowing the gig. You will never be able to find the right harness and put it on so that there will not be an accident on the road, and Mr. Haverley or the man will have to be sent for. And, besides, there will be the trouble of getting the gig back again. Now, don't you think it will be a great deal better for you to put that saddle on the horse, and ride him home, and then send the carriage for me? That would be very simple, and no trouble at all."

Mr. Bannister turned his admiring eyes upon his sister.

"I declare, Dora," he said, "that is a good practical suggestion. If Miss Haverley will allow me, I will borrow the saddle and the bridle and ride home; I shall like that."

"Of course you are welcome to the saddle, if you wish it," said Miriam; "but you need not send for your sister. Why can't she stay with me to-night? I think it would be splendid to have a girl spend the night with me. Perhaps I oughtn't to call you a girl, Miss Bannister."

Dora's eyes sparkled. "But I am a girl, just as you are," she exclaimed, "and I should be delighted to stay. You are very good to propose it. Herbert is an awfully slow rider (I believe he always walks his horse), and I am sure it would be after dark before the carriage would get here."

"Do let her stay," cried Miriam, seizing Dora's arm, as if they had been old friends; "I shall be so glad to have her."

Mr. Bannister laughed.

"It is not for me to say what Dora shall do," he replied. "You two must decide that, and if I go home to report our safety, it will be all right. It is now too late for me to go to Mrs. Dudley's, especially as I ride so slowly; but I will drive there to-morrow, and stop for Dora on my return."

"Settled!" cried Miriam; and Dora gazed at her with radiant face. It was delightful to be able to bestow such pleasure.

In two minutes Mr. Bannister had brought in his horse. In the next minute all three of the party were busy unbuckling his harness; in ten minutes more it had been taken off, the saddle and bridle substituted, and Mr. Bannister was riding to Thorbury.

Dora of the sparkling eyes drew close to Miriam.

"Would you mind my kissing you?" she asked.

There was nothing in the warm young soul of the other girl which in the least objected to this token of a new-born friendship.

As Dora and Miriam, each with an arm around the waist of the other, walked out of the barn and passed the lower story, the calf, who had been the main instrument in bringing about the cordial relations between the two, raised his head and gazed at them with his good eye. Then perceiving that they had forgotten him, and were going away without even arranging his mosquito net for the night, he slowly turned his clouded visual organ in their direction, and composed himself to rest.



CHAPTER XII

TO EAT WITH THE FAMILY

As the two girls entered the house, Miriam clapped her hands.

"What a surprise this will be for Ralph!" she exclaimed. "He hasn't the slightest idea that you are here, or that anybody is going to spend the night with us. If Mike said anything about you and your brother,—which I doubt, for he is awfully anxious to get in that hay,—Ralph thought, of course, that you were both gone long ago."

The situation suited Dora's fancy admirably.

"Let us make it a regular surprise," she said. "I am going to help you to get supper, and to do whatever you have to do. Suppose you don't tell your brother that I am here, and let him find it out by degrees. Don't you think that will be fun?"

"Indeed it will," cried the other; "and if you don't mind helping a little about the cooking, I think that will be fun too. Perhaps you can tell me some things I don't know."

"Let us begin," exclaimed Dora, "for everything ought to be ready before he comes in. Can you lend me a big apron?"

"I have only one," said Miriam, "and it is not very big; I intended to make some more, but I haven't had time. But you needn't do anything, you know. You can just give me advice and keep me company."

"Oh, I want to do things. I want to work," cried Dora; "it would be cruel to keep me from the fun of helping you get supper. Haven't you something I can slip on instead of this dress? It is not very fine, but I don't want to spatter or burn it."

"None of my clothes are long enough for you," said Miriam; "but perhaps I might find something in the garret. There are all sorts of clothes up there. If you choose, we can go up and look."

In the next minute the two girls were in the great garret, kneeling in front of a trunk, in which Miriam had found the silk robe, which now lay tumbled up in a corner of a stall in the cow-stable. Article after article of female attire was drawn out and tossed on the floor. Dora was delighted; she was fond of old-fashioned things, and here were clothes of various eras. Some colonial, perhaps, and none that had been worn since these two girls had come into the world. There was a calico dress with large pink figures in it which caught Dora's eye; she sprang to her feet, shook it out, and held it up before her.

"This will do," she said. "The length is all right, and it does not matter about the rest of the fit."

"Of course not," said Miriam; "and now let us go down. We need not wait to put the rest of the things back."

As Dora was about to go, her eyes fell on an old-fashioned pink sunbonnet.

"If you don't mind," she said, "I will take that, too. I shall be awfully awkward, and I don't want to get cinders or flour in my hair."

When Dora had arrayed herself in the calico dress with pink flowers, she stood for a moment before the large mirror in Miriam's room. The dress was very short as to waist, and very perpendicular as to skirt, and the sleeves were puffy at the elbows and tight about the wrists, but pink was a color that became her, the quaint cut of the gown was well suited to her blooming face, and altogether she was pleased with the picture in the glass. As for the sunbonnet, that was simply hideous, but it could be taken off when she chose, and the wearing of it would help her very much in making herself known to Mr. Ralph Haverley.

For half an hour the girls worked bravely in the kitchen. Dora had some knowledge of the principles of cookery, though her practice had been small, and Miriam possessed an undaunted courage in culinary enterprises. However, they planned nothing difficult, and got on very well. Dora made up some of Miriam's dough into little rolls.

"I wish I could make these as the Tolbridges' new cook makes them. They say that every morning she sends in a plate of breakfast rolls, each one a different shape, and some of them ever so pretty."

"I don't suppose they taste any better for that," remarked Miriam.

"Perhaps not," said the other, "but I like to see things to eat look pretty." And she did her best to shape the little rolls into such forms that they might please the eye of Mr. Ralph as well as satisfy his palate.

Miriam went up to the dining-room to arrange the table. While doing this she saw Ralph approaching from the barn. In the kitchen, below, Dora, glancing out of the window, also saw him coming, and pulling her sunbonnet well forward, she applied herself more earnestly to her work. Ralph came in, tired and warm, and threw himself down on a long horse-hair sofa in the hall.

"Heigh ho, Miriam," he cried; "hay-making is a jolly thing, all the world over, but I have had enough of it for to-day. How are you getting on, little one? Don't put yourself to too much trouble about my supper. Only give me enough of whatever you have; that is all I ask."

"Ralph," said Miriam, standing gravely by him, "I did not have to get supper all by myself; there is a new girl in the kitchen."

"Good," cried Ralph; "I am very glad to hear that. When did she come?"

"This afternoon," said Miriam, "and she is cooking supper now. But, Ralph," she continued, "there is hardly any wood in the kitchen. We have—she has used up nearly all that was brought in this morning."

"Well," said Ralph, "there is plenty of it cut, in the woodhouse."

"But, Ralph," said Miriam, "I don't like to ask her to go after the wood, herself, and some is needed now."

"Mike is just as busy as he can be down at the barn," said her brother, "and I cannot call him now. If you show her the woodhouse, she can get what she wants with very little trouble, and Mike will bring in a lot of it to-night."

"But, Ralph," persisted his sister, "I don't want to ask her to stop her cooking and go out and get wood. It does not look like good management, for one thing, and for other reasons I do not want to do it. Don't you think you could bring her some wood? Just a little basketful of short sticks will do."

Ralph sat up and knitted his brows. "Miriam," said he, "if your new cook is the right sort of a woman, she ought to be able to help herself in emergencies of this kind, with the woodhouse not a dozen yards from the kitchen. But as she is a stranger to the place, and I don't want to discourage anybody who comes to help you, I will get some wood for her, but I must say that it does not look very well for the lord of the manor to be carrying fuel to the cook."

"It isn't the lord of the manor," cried Miriam; "it is the head hay-maker, and when you dress yourself for supper, she will never think of you as the man who brought in the wood."

Dora, from the kitchen window, saw Ralph go out to the woodhouse, and she saw him returning with an arm-load of small sticks. Then she turned her back to the kitchen door, and bent her head over a beefsteak she was preparing for the gridiron.

Ralph came in with the wood, and put it down by the side of the great stove. As he glanced at the slight form in the pink gown, it struck him that this woman would not be equal to the hard work which would be sometimes necessary here.

"I suppose this wood will be as much as you will want for the present," he said, as he turned toward the door, "and the man will fill this box to-night, but if you need any more before he does so, there is the woodhouse just across the yard, where you can easily get a few sticks."

Dora half turned herself in the direction of the woodhouse, and murmured, "Yes, sir."

"Miriam," said Ralph, as he went into the dining-room, where his sister was putting the knives and forks upon the supper table, "do you think that woman is strong enough to wash, iron, and do all the things that Phoebe used to do when she was here? How old is she?"

"I don't know, exactly," answered Miriam, going to a cupboard for some glasses; "and as to rough work, I can't tell what she can do, until she tries."

When Ralph had made his toilet and come downstairs, attired in a very becoming summer suit, his sister complimented him.

"Hay-making makes you ever so much handsomer," she said; "you look as if you had been on a yachting cruise. There is one thing I forgot to say to you, but I do not suppose it will make any difference, as we are real country people now: our new cook is accustomed to eating at the table with the family."

Ralph's face flushed. "Upon my word!" he exclaimed, staring at his sister. "Well," he continued, "I don't care what she is accustomed to, but she cannot eat at our table. I may carry wood for cooks, but I do not eat with them."

"But, Ralph," said Miriam, "you ought to consider the circumstances. She is not a common Irishwoman, or German. She is an American, and has always taken her meals with the family in which she lived. I could not ask her to eat in the kitchen. You know, Mike takes his meals there since Phoebe has gone. Indeed, Ralph, I cannot expect her to do a thing that she has never done in her life, before. Do you really think you would mind it? You work with Mike in the field, and you don't mind that, and this girl is very respectable, I assure you."

Ralph stood silent. He had supposed his sister, young as she was, knew more of the world than to make an arrangement with a servant which would put her, in many respects, on an equality with themselves. He was very much annoyed, but he would not be angry with Miriam, if he could help it, nor would he put her in the embarrassing position of revoking the agreement with this American woman, probably a farmer's daughter, and, in her own opinion, as good as anybody. But, although he might yield at present, he determined to take the important matter of engaging domestic servants into his own hands. His sister had not yet the necessary judgment for that sort of thing.

"Miriam," said he, "for how long have you engaged this woman?"

"Nothing at all has been said about time," she answered.

"Very well, then," said he, "she can come to the table to-night and to-morrow morning, for, I suppose, if I object, she will go off and leave you again without anybody, but to-morrow she must be told that she cannot eat with us; and if she does not like that, she must leave, and I will go to the city and get you a proper servant. The hay is in now, and there is no more important work to which I could give a day. Now do not be angry, little one, because I object to your domestic arrangements. We all have to make mistakes, you know, when we begin."

"Thank you, Ralph," said Miriam. "I really am ever so much obliged to you," and going up to her brother, she lifted her face to his. Ralph stooped to kiss her, but suddenly stopped.

"Who, in the name of common sense, is that!" he exclaimed. The sound of wheels was plainly heard upon the driveway, and turning, they saw a buggy stop at the door.

"It is Dr. Tolbridge!" cried Miriam.

Through the open front door Ralph saw that it was the doctor, preparing to alight.

"Miriam," said he, quickly, "we must ask the doctor to stay to supper, and if he does, that cook must not come to the table. It will not do at all, as you can see for yourself. We cannot ask our friends and neighbors to sit down with servants."

"I will see," said Miriam. "I think that can be made all right," and they both went to the door to meet their visitor.

The doctor shook hands with them most cordially.

"Glad to see you both so ruddy; Cobhurst air must agree with you. And now, before we say anything else, let me ask you a question: Have you had your supper?"

"No," answered Ralph, "and I hope you have not."

"Your hopes are realized. I have not, and if you do not mind letting me sup with you, I will do it."

The brother and sister, who both liked the hearty doctor, assured him that they would be delighted to have him stay.

"The reason of my extending an invitation to myself is this: I have been making a visit in the country, where I was detained much longer than I expected, and as I drove homeward, I said to myself, 'Good sir, you are hungry, and where are you going to get your evening meal? You cannot reach home until long after the dinner hour, and moreover you have a patient beyond Cobhurst, whom you ought to see this evening. It would be a great pity to drive all the way to Thorbury, and then back again, to-night. Now there are those young Cobhurst people, who, you know, have supper at the end of the day, instead of dinner, like the regular farmers that they are, and as you want to see them, anyway, and find out how they are getting on, it will be well to stop there, and ten to one, you will find that they have not yet sat down to the table.'"

"A most excellent conclusion," said Ralph, "and I will call Mike, and have him take your horse."

Having left the doctor in the charge of her brother, Miriam hurried downstairs to apprise Dora of the state of affairs.

"I am sorry," she said, "but we will have to give up the trick we were going to play on Ralph, for Dr. Tolbridge has come, and will stay to supper, and so, while you go upstairs and put on your own dress, I will finish getting these things ready. I will see Ralph before we sit down, and tell him all about it."

Dora made no movement toward the stairs.

"I knew it was the doctor," she said, "for I went out and looked around the corner of the house, and saw his horse. But I do not see why we should give up our trick. Let us play it on the doctor as well as on your brother."

Miriam stood silent a few moments.

"I do not know how that would do," she said. "That is a very different thing. And besides, I do not believe Ralph would let you come to the table. You ought to have seen how angry he was when I told him the new cook must eat with us."

"Oh, that was splendid!" cried Dora. "I will not come to the table. That will make it all the funnier when we tell him. I can eat my supper anywhere, and I will go upstairs and wait on you, which will be better sport than sitting down at the table with you."

"But I do not like that," said Miriam. "I will not have you go without your supper until we have finished."

"My dear Miriam!" exclaimed Dora, "what is a supper in comparison with such a jolly bit of fun as this? Let me go on as the new cook. And now we must hurry and get these things on the table. It will make things a great deal easier for me, if they can eat before it is time to light the lamps."

When Miriam went to call the gentlemen to supper, the doctor said to her:—

"Your brother has told me that you have a new servant, and that she is so preposterous as to wish to take her meals with you, but that he does not intend to allow it. Now, I say to you, as I said to him, that if she expected to sit at the table before I came, she must do it now. I am used to that sort of thing, and do not mind it a bit. In the families of the farmers about here, with whom I often take a meal, it is the custom for the daughter of the family to cook, to wait on the table, and then sit down with whomever may be there, kings or cobblers. I beg that you will not let my coming make trouble in your household."

Miriam looked at her brother.

"All right," said Ralph, with a smile, "if the doctor does not mind, I shall not. And now, do let us have something to eat."



CHAPTER XIII

DORA'S NEW MIND

When Ralph Haverley made up his mind to agree to anything, he did it with his whole soul, and if he had had any previous prejudices against it, he dismissed them; so as he sat at supper with the doctor and his sister he was very much amused at being waited upon by a woman in a pink sunbonnet. That she should wear such a head-covering in the house was funny enough in itself, but the rest of her dress was also extremely odd, and she kept the front of her dark projecting bonnet turned downward or away, as if she had never served gentlemen before, and was very much overpowered by bashfulness. But for all that she waited very well, and with a light quickness of movement unusual in a servant.

"I am afraid, doctor," said Miriam, when the pink figure had gone downstairs to replenish the plate of rolls, "that you will miss your dinner. I have heard that you have a most wonderful cook."

"She is indeed a mistress of her art," replied the doctor; "but you do very well here, I am sure. That new cook of yours beats Phoebe utterly. I know Phoebe's cooking."

"But you must not give her all the credit," exclaimed Miriam; "I made that bread, although she shaped it into rolls. And I helped with the beefsteak, the potatoes, and the coffee."

"Which latter," said Ralph, "is as strong as if six or seven women had made it, although it is very good."

The meal went on until the two hungry men were satisfied, Miriam being so absorbed in Dora's skilful management of herself that she scarcely thought about eating. There was a place for the woman in pink, if she chose to take it, but she evidently did not wish to sit down. Whenever she was not occupied in waiting upon those at the table, she bethought herself of some errand in the kitchen.

"Well," said Ralph, "those rolls are made up so prettily, and look so tempting, that I wish I had not finished my supper."

"You are right," said the doctor, "they are aesthetic enough for La Fleur," and then pushing back his chair a little, he looked steadfastly, with a slight smile on his face, at the figure, with bowed sunbonnet, which was standing on the other side of the table.

"Well, young woman," he said, "how is your mind by this time?"

For a moment there was silence, and then from out of the sunbonnet there came, clearly and distinctly, the words:—

"That is very well. How is your kitten?"

At this interchange of remarks, Ralph sat up straight in his chair, amazement in his countenance, while Miriam, ready to burst into a roar of laughter, waited convulsively to see what would happen next. Turning suddenly toward Ralph, Dora tore off her sunbonnet and dashed it to the floor. Standing there with her dishevelled hair, her flushed cheeks, her sparkling eyes and her quaint gown, Ralph thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever gazed upon.

"How do you do, Mr. Haverley?" said Dora, advancing and extending her hand; "I know you are not willing to eat with cooks, but I do not believe you will object to shaking hands with one, now and then."

Ralph arose, and took her hand, but she gave him no opportunity to say anything.

"Your sister and I got up this little bit of deception for you, Mr. Haverley," she continued, "and we intended to carry it on a good deal further, but that gentleman has spoiled it all, and I want you to know that I stopped here to see your sister, and finding she had not a soul to help her, I would not leave her in such a plight, and we had a royal good time, getting the supper, and were going to do ever so many more things—I should like to know, doctor, how you knew me. I am sure I did not look a bit like myself."

"You did not look like yourself, but you walked like yourself," replied Dr. Tolbridge. "I watched you when you first tried to toddle alone, and I have seen you nearly every day since, and I know your way of stepping about as well as I know anything. But I must really apologize for having spoiled the fun. I discovered you, Dora, before we had half finished supper, but I thought the trick was being played on me alone. I had no idea that Mr. Haverley thought you were the new cook."

"I certainly did think so," cried Ralph, "and what is more, I intended to discharge you to-morrow morning."

There was a lively time for a few minutes, after which Dora explained what had been said about her mind and a kitten.

"He was just twitting me with having once changed my mind—every one does that," she said; "and then I gave him a kitten. That is all. And now, before I change my dress, I will go and get some wood for the kitchen fire. I think you said, Mr. Haverley, that the woodhouse was not far away."

"Wood!" cried Ralph; "don't you think of it!"

Miriam burst into a laugh.

"Oh, you ought to have heard the lord of the manor declare that he would not carry fuel for the cook," she cried.

Ralph joined in the laugh that rose against him, but insisted that Dora should not change her dress.

"You could not wear anything more becoming," he said, "and you do not know how much I want to treat the new cook as one of the family."

"I will wear whatever the lord of the manor chooses," said Dora, demurely, and was about to make reference to his concluding remark, but checked herself.

When the two girls joined the gentlemen on the porch, which they did with much promptness, having delegated the greater part of their household duties to Mike, who could take a hand at almost any kind of work, Dr. Tolbridge announced that he must proceed to visit his patient.

"Are you coming back this way, doctor?" asked Dora. "Because if you are, would it be too much trouble for you to look for our buggy on the side of the road, and to bring back the cushions and the whip with you? Herbert may think that in this part of the country the people are so honest that they would not steal anything out of a deserted buggy, but I do not believe it is safe to put too much trust in people."

"A fine, practicable mind," said the doctor; "cuts clean and sharp. I will bring the cushions and the whip, if they have not been stolen before I reach them. And now I will go to the barn and get my horse. We need not disturb the industrious Mike."

"If you are going to the barn, doctor," cried Miriam, seizing her hat, "I will go with you and put the mosquito net over my calf, which I entirely forgot to do. Perhaps, if it is light enough, you will look at its eye."

The doctor laughed, and the two went off together, leaving Dora and Ralph on the piazza.

Dora could not help thinking of herself as a very lucky girl. When she had started that afternoon to make a little visit at Cobhurst, she had had no imaginable reason to suppose that in the course of a very few hours she would be sitting alone with Mr. Haverley in the early moonlight, without even his sister with them. She had expected to see Ralph and to have a chat with him, but she had counted on Miriam's presence as a matter of course; so this tete-a-tete in the quiet beauty of the night was as delightful as it was unanticipated. More than that, it was an opportunity that ought not to be disregarded.

The new mind of Miss Dora Bannister was clear and quick in its perceptions, and prompt and independent in action. It not only showed what she wanted, but indicated pretty clearly how she might get it. Since she had been making use of this fresh intellect, she had been impressed very strongly by the belief that in the matter of matrimonial alliance, a girl should not neglect her interest by depending too much upon the option of other people. Her own right of option she looked upon as a sacred right, and one that it was her duty to herself to exercise, and that promptly. She had just come from the seaside, where she had met some earnest young men, one or two of whom she expected to see shortly at Thorbury. Also Mr. Ames, their young rector, was a very persevering person, and a great friend of her brother.

Of course it behooved her to act with tact, but for all that she must be prompt. It was easy to see that Ralph Haverley could not be expected to go very soon into the society of Thorbury, to visit ladies there, and as she wanted him to learn to know her as rapidly as possible, she resolved to give him every opportunity.

Miriam was gone a long time, because when she reached the barn, the calf was not to be found where she had left it, and she had been obliged to go for Mike and a lantern. After anxious search the little fellow had been found reclining under an apple tree, having gained sufficient strength from the ministrations of its fair attendants to go through the open stable door and to find out what sort of a world it had been born into. It required time to get the truant back, secure it in its stall, and make all the arrangements for its comfort which Miriam thought necessary. Therefore, before she returned to the piazza, Miss Bannister and Ralph had had a long conversation, in which the latter had learned a great deal about the disposition and tastes of his fair companion, and had been much interested in what he learned.



CHAPTER XIV

GOOD-NIGHT

When the three young people had been sitting for half an hour on the wide piazza of Cobhurst, enjoying the moonlight effects and waiting for the return of Dr. Tolbridge, Miriam, who was reclining in a steamer chair, ceased making remarks, but very soon after she became silent she was heard again, not speaking, however, but breathing audibly and with great regularity. Ralph and Dora turned toward her and smiled.

"Poor little thing," said the latter in a low voice; "she must be tired out."

"Yes," said Ralph, also speaking in an undertone, "she was up very early this morning, and has been at some sort of work ever since. I do not intend that this shall happen again. You must excuse her, Miss Bannister,—she is a girl yet, you know."

"And a sweet one, too," said Dora, "with a perfect right to go to sleep if she chooses. I should be ashamed of myself if I felt in the least degree offended. Do not let us disturb her until the doctor comes; the nap will do her good."

"Suppose, then," said Ralph, "that we take a little turn in the moonlight. Then we need not trouble ourselves to lower our voices."

"That will be very well," said Dora, "but I am afraid she may take cold, although the night air is so soft. I think I saw a lap robe on a table in the hall; I will spread that over her."

Ralph whispered that he would get the robe, but motioning him back, and having tiptoed into the hall and back again, Dora laid the light covering over the sleeping girl so gently that the regular breathing was not in the least interrupted. Then they both went quietly down the steps, and out upon the lawn.

"She is such a dear girl," said Dora, as they slowly moved away, "and although we only met to-day, I am really growing very fond of her, and I like her the better because there is still so much of the child left in her. Do not you like her the better for that, Mr. Haverley?"

Ralph did agree most heartily, and it made him happy to agree on any subject with a girl who was even more beautiful by moonlight than by day; who was so kind, and tended to his sister, and whose generous disposition could overlook little breaches of etiquette when there was reason to do so.

As they walked backward and forward, not very far away from the piazza, and sometimes stopping to admire bits of the silver-tinted landscape, Dora, with most interesting deftness, gave Ralph further opportunity of knowing her. With his sister as a suggesting subject, she talked about herself; she told him how she, too, had lost her parents early in life, and had been obliged to be a very independent girl, for her stepmother, although just as good as she could be, was not a person on whom she could rely very much. As for her brother, the dearest man on earth, she had always felt that she was more capable of taking care of him, at least in all matters in home life, than he of her.

"But I have been very happy," she went on to say, "for I am so fond of country life, and everything that belongs to it, that the more I have to do with it, the better I like it, and I really begrudge the time that I spend in the city. You do not know with what pleasure I look forward to helping Miriam get breakfast to-morrow morning. I consider it a positive lark. By the way, Mr. Haverley, do you like rolled omelets?"