Before the old lady reached the Bannisters' gate, she saw Mr. Haverley, in his gig, drive away. This brightened her up a little.

"He comes here, anyway," she thought; "what a pity Dora is not in."

Nevertheless, she went on to the Bannister house; and when she found Dora was in, she began to scold her.

"This will never do, will never do," she said. "Get angry with him if you choose, but don't show it. If you do that, you may crash him too low or bounce him too high, and, in either case, he may be off before you know it. It is too early in the game to show him that he has made you angry."

"But if he doesn't want me, I don't want him," said Dora, sulkily.

"If you think that way, my dear," said Miss Panney, "you may as well make up your mind to make a bad match, or die an old maid. The right man very seldom comes of his own accord; it is nearly always the wrong one. If you happen to meet the right man, you should help him to know that he ought to come. That is the way to look at it. That young Haverley does not know yet who it is that he cares for. He is just floating along, waiting for some one to thrust out a boat-hook and pull him in."

"I shall marry no floating log," said Dora, stiffly.

The old lady laughed.

"Perhaps that was not a very good figure of speech," she said; "but really, my dear, you must not interfere with your own happiness by showing temper; and if you look at the affair in its proper light, you will see it is not so bad, after all. Ten to one, he brought her to town because she wanted to come with him,—probably on some patched-up errand; but he came here because he wanted to come. There could be no other reason; and, instead of being angry with him, you should have given him an extraordinary welcome. For the very reason that she has so many advantages over you, being so much with him, you should be very careful to make use of the advantages you have over her. And your advantages are that you are ten times better fitted to be his wife than she is; and the great thing necessary to be done is to let him see it. But her chances must come to an end. Those Dranes must be got away from Cobhurst."

"I don't like that way of looking at it," said Dora, leaning back in her chair, with a sigh. "It's the same thing as fishing for a man, though I suppose it might have been well to see him when he came."

Now Miss Panney felt encouraged; her patient was showing good symptoms. Let her keep in that state of mind, and she would see that the lover came. She had made a mistake in speaking so bluntly about getting the Dranes out of Cobhurst. Although she would not say anything more to Dora about that important piece of work, she would do it all the same.

This little visit had been an important one to Miss Panney; it had enabled her to understand Dora's character much better than she had understood it before; and she perceived that in this case of matchmaking she must not only do a great deal of the work herself, but she must do it without Dora's knowing anything about it. She liked this, for she was not much given to consulting with people.

Miss Panney had another call to pay in the neighborhood, and she had intended, for form's sake, to spend a little time with Mrs. Bannister; but she did neither. She went back by the way she had come, wishing to learn all she could about the movements of the Cobhurst gig.

Approaching the Tolbridge house, she saw that vehicle standing before the door, with the sleepy Mrs. Browning tied to a post, and as she drew nearer, she perceived Ralph Haverley sitting alone on the vine-shaded piazza. The old lady would not enter the Tolbridge gate, but she stood on the other side of the street, and beckoned to Ralph, who, as soon as he saw her, ran over to her.

Ralph walked a little way with Miss Panney, and after answering her most friendly inquiries about Miriam, he explained how he happened to be sitting alone on the piazza; the doctor and Miss Drane, whom he had brought to town, were at work at some manuscript, and he had preferred to wait outside instead of indoors.

"I called on Miss Bannister," he said, "but she was not at home, so I came back here."

"It is a pity she was out," said Miss Panney, carelessly, "and now that you have mentioned Miss Bannister, I would like to ask you something; why does not your sister return her visits? I saw Dora not very long ago, and found that her feelings had been a little hurt—not much, perhaps, but a little—by Miriam's apparent indifference to her. Dora is a very sensitive girl, and is slow to make friends among other girls. I never knew any friendship so quick and lively as that she showed for Miriam. You know that Dora is still young; it has not been long since she left school; there is not a girl in Thorbury that she cares anything about, and her life at home must necessarily be a lonely one. Her brother is busy, even in the evenings, and Mrs. Bannister is no companion for a lively young girl."

"I had thought," said Ralph, "that Miss Bannister went a good deal into society."

"Oh, no," answered Miss Panney; "she sometimes visits her relatives, who are society people; but in years and disposition she is too young for that sort of thing. Society women and society men would simply bore her. At heart she is a true country girl, and I think it was because Miriam had country tastes, and loved that sort of life, that Dora's affections went out so quickly to her. I wish your sister had the same feelings toward her."

"Oh, Miriam likes her very much," exclaimed Ralph, "and is always delighted to see her; but my little sister is wonderfully fond of staying at home. I have told her over and over again that she ought to return Miss Bannister's calls."

"Make her do it," said the old lady. "It is her duty, and I assure you, it will be greatly to her advantage. Miriam is a most lovely girl, but her character has not hardened itself into what it is going to be, and association with a thoroughbred girl, such as Dora Bannister, admirably educated, who has seen something of the world, with an intelligence and wit such as I have never known in any one of her age, and more than all with a soul as beautiful as her face, cannot fail to be an inestimable benefit to your sister. What Miriam most needs, at this stage of her life, is proper companionship of her own age and sex."

Ralph assented. "But," said he, "she is not without that, you know. Miss Drane, who with her mother now lives with us, is a most—"

Miss Panney's face grew very hard.

"Excuse me," she interrupted, "I know all about that. Of course the Dranes are very estimable people, and there are many things, especially in the way of housekeeping, which Mrs. Drane could teach Miriam, if she chose to take the trouble. But while I respect the daughter's efforts to support herself and her mother, it must be admitted that she is a working-girl—nothing more or less—and must continue to be such. Her present business, of course, can only last for a little while, and she will have to adopt some regular calling. This life she expects, and is preparing herself for it. But a mind such as hers is, or must speedily become, is not the one from which Miriam's young mind should receive its impressions. The two will move in very different spheres, and neither can be of any benefit to the other. More than that I will not say; but I will say that your sister can never find any friend so eager to love her, and so willing to help and be helped by her in so many ways in which girls can help each other, as my dear Dora. Now bestir yourself, Mr. Haverley, and make Miriam look at this thing as she ought to. I don't pretend to deny that I have spoken to you very much for Dora's sake, for whom I have an almost motherly feeling; but you should act for your sister's sake. And please don't forget what I have said, young man, and give Miriam my best love."

When Ralph walked back to the Tolbridge piazza he found the working-girl sitting there, waiting for him. His mind was not in an altogether satisfactory condition; some things Miss Panney had said had pleased and even excited him, but there were other things that he resented. If she had not been such an old lady, and if she had not talked so rapidly, he might have shown this resentment. But he had not done so, and now the more he thought about it, the stronger the feeling grew.

As for Cicely Drane, she was a great deal more quiet during the drive home, than she had been when going to Thorbury. Her mind was in an unsatisfactory condition, and this had been occasioned by an interview with La Fleur, who had waylaid her in the hall as she came out of the doctor's office.

The good cook had been in a state of enthusiastic delight, since, looking out of the kitchen window where she had been sitting, with a manuscript book of recipes in her lap, planning the luncheon and dinner, she had seen the lord of Cobhurst drive up to the gate with dear Miss Cicely. It was a joy like that of listening to a party of dinner guests, who were eating her favorite ice. With intense impatience she had awaited the appearance of Cicely from the doctor's office; and, having drawn her to one side, she hastily imparted her sentiments.

"It's a shabby gig, Miss Cicely," she said, "such as the farmers use in the old country, but it's his own, and not hired, and the big house is his own, and all the broad acres. And he's a gentleman from head to heel, living on his own estate, and as fine a built man as ever rode in the Queen's army. Oh, Miss Cicely, your star is at the top of the heavens this time, and I want you to let me know if there is anything you want in the way of hats or wraps or clothes, or anything of that kind. It doesn't make the least difference to me, you know, just now, and we'll settle it all after a while. It is the Christian duty for every young lady to look the smartest, especially at a time like this."

Cicely, her face flushed, drew herself away.

"La Fleur," she said, speaking quickly and in a low voice, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself." And she hurried away, fearing that Mr. Haverley was waiting for her.

La Fleur was not a bit ashamed of herself; she chuckled as she went back to the kitchen.

"She's a young thing of brains and beauty," said she to herself, "and I don't doubt that she had the notion in her own mind. But if it wasn't there, I have put it there, and if it was there, I've dished it and dressed it, and it will be like another thing to her. As for the rest of it, he'll attend to that. I haven't a doubt that he is the curly-headed, brave fellow to do that; and I'll find out from her mother if she needs anything, and not hurt her pride neither."



CHAPTER XXIX

HYPOTHESIS AND INNUENDO

To say that Cicely Drane had not thought of Ralph Haverley as an exceedingly agreeable young man would be an injustice to her young womanly nature, but it would be quite correct to state that she had not thought him a whit more agreeable than Miriam. She was charmed with them both; they had taken her into their home circle as if they had adopted her as a sister. It was not until her mother began to put a gentle pressure upon her in order to prevent her gathering too many apples, and joining in too many other rural recreations with Mr. Haverley, that she thought of him as one who was not to be considered in the light of a brother. There could be no doubt that she would have come to the same conclusion if left to herself, but she would not have reached it so soon.

But the effect that her mother's precautionary disposition had had upon her was nothing compared to that produced by the words of La Fleur. For the first time she looked upon Ralph as one on whom other persons looked as her lover, and to sit by the side of the said young man, immediately after being informed of said fact, was not conducive to a free and tranquil flow of remark.

Her own sentiments on the subject, so far as she had put them into shape,—and it was quite natural that she should immediately begin to do this,—were neither embarrassing nor disagreeable. She liked him very much, and there was no reason why she should object to his liking her very much, and if they should ever do more than this, she should not be ashamed of it, and perhaps should be glad of it. But she was sorry that before either of them had thought of this, some one else should have done so.

This might prove to be embarrassing, and the only comfort she could give herself was that La Fleur was such an affectionate old body, always talking of some bit of good fortune for her, that if she had seen her in company with a king or an emperor, she would immediately set herself to find some sort of throne-covering which would suit her hair and complexion.

The definite result of her reflections, made between desultory questions and answers, was that she regarded the young gentleman by her side in a light very different from that in which she had viewed him before she had met La Fleur in the doctor's hall. It was not that she looked upon him as a possible lover—she had sense enough to know that almost any man might be that—he was a hypothetic lover, and in view of the assumption it behooved her to give careful observation to everything in him, herself, or others, which might bear upon the ensuing argument.

As for Ralph, it angered him to look at the young lady by his side, who was as handsome, as well educated and cultured, as tastefully dressed, as intelligent and witty, of as gentle, kind, and winning a disposition, and, judging from what the doctor had told him when he first spoke of the Dranes, of as good blood, family, and position, as any one within the circle of his acquaintance, and then to remember that she had been called a working-girl, and spoken of in a manner that was almost contemptuous.

Ralph always took the side of the man who was down, and, consequently, very often put himself on the wrong side; and although he did not consider that Miss Drane was down, he saw that Miss Panney had tried to put her down, and therefore he became her champion.

"There could not be any one," he said to himself, "better fitted to be the friend and companion of Miriam than Cicely Drane is, and the next time I see that old lady, I shall tell her so. I have nothing to say against Miss Bannister, but I shall stand up for this one."

And now, feeling that it was not polite to treat a young lady with seeming inattention, because he happened to be earnestly thinking about her, he began to talk to Cicely in his liveliest and gayest manner, and she, not wishing him to think that she thought that there was anything out of the way in this, or in his previous preoccupation, responded just as gayly.

Ralph delivered Miss Panney's message to his sister, and Miriam, giving much more weight to the advice and opinion of the old lady, whom she knew very slightly and cared for very little, than to that of her brother, whom she loved dearly, said she would go to see Miss Bannister the next afternoon if it happened to be clear.

It was clear, and she went, and Ralph drove her there in the gig, and Dora was overwhelmed with joy to see her, and scolded Ralph in the most charming way for not bringing her before; Miriam was taken to see Congo, because Dora wanted her to begin to love him, and they were shown into the library, because Dora said that she knew they both loved books, and her father had gathered together so many. In ten minutes, Miriam was in the window seat, dipping, which ended in her swimming, far beyond her depth in Don Quixote, which she had so often read of and never seen, and Dora and Ralph sat, heads together, over a portfolio of photographs of foreign places where the Bannisters had been.

There were very few books at Cobhurst, and Miriam had read all of them she cared for, and consequently it was an absorbing delight to follow the adventures of the Knight of La Mancha.

Ralph had not travelled in Europe, and there were very few pictures at Cobhurst, and he was greatly interested in the photographs, but this interest soon waned in the increasing delight of having Dora seated so close to him, of seeing her fair fingers point out the things he should look at, and listening to her sweet voice, as she talked to him about the scenes and buildings. There was an element of gentle and sympathetic interest in Dora's manner, which reminded him of her visit to Cobhurst, and the good-night on the stairs, and this had a very charming effect upon Ralph, and made him wish that the portfolio were at least double its actual size.

The Haverleys stayed so long that Mrs. Bannister, upstairs, began to be nervous, and wondered if Dora had asked those young people to remain to tea.

On the way home Ralph was in unusually good spirits, and talked much about Dora. She must have seen a great deal of the world, he said, for one so young, and she talked in such an interesting and appreciative way about what she had seen, that he felt almost as if he had been to the places himself.

With this for a text, he dilated upon the subject of Dora and foreign travel, but Miriam was not a responsive hearer.

"I wish you knew Mr. Bannister better," she said in a pause in her brother's remarks. "He must have been everywhere that his sister has been, and probably saw a great deal more."

"No doubt," said Ralph, carelessly, "and probably has forgotten most of it; men generally do that. A girl's mind is not crammed with business and all that sort of stuff, and she can keep it free for things that are worth remembering."

Miriam did not immediately answer, but presently she said, speaking with a certain air of severity:—

"If my soul ached for the company of anybody as Miss Panney told you Dora Bannister's soul ached for my company, I think I should have a little more to say to her when she came to see me, than Dora Bannister had to say to me to-day."

"My dear child!" exclaimed Ralph, "that was because you were so busy with your book. She saw you were completely wrapped up in it, and so let you take your own pleasure in your own way. I think that is one of her good points. She tries to find out what pleases people."

"Bother her good points!" snapped Miriam. "You will make a regular porcupine of her if you keep on. I wish Mr. Bannister had given you the dog."

Ralph was very much disturbed; it was seldom that his sister snapped at him. He could see, now that he considered the matter, that Miriam had been somewhat neglected. She was young and a little touchy, and this ought to be considered. He thought it might be well, the next time he saw Miss Bannister by herself, to explain this to her. He believed he could do it without making it appear a matter of any great importance. It was important, however, for he should very much dislike to see ill will grow up between Miriam and Miss Bannister. What Miss Panney had said about this young lady was very, very true, although, of course, it did not follow that any one else need be disparaged.

Early in the forenoon of the next day, Miss Panney drove to Cobhurst. She had come, she informed Miriam, not only to see her, dear girl, but to make a formal call upon the Dranes.

The call was very formal; Miss Drane left her work to meet the visitor, but having been loftily set aside by that lady during a stiff conversation with her mother about old residents in the neighborhood in which they had lived, she excused herself, after a time, and went back to her table and her manuscripts.

Then Miss Panney changed the conversational scene, and began to talk about Thorbury.

"I do not know, madam," she said, "that you are aware that I was the cause of your coming to this neighborhood."

Mrs. Drane was a quiet lady, and the previous remarks of her visitor had been calculated to render her more quiet, but this roused her.

"I certainly did not," she said. "We came on the invitation and through the kindness of Dr. Tolbridge, my old friend."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Miss Panney, "that is all true enough, but I told him to send for you. In fact, I insisted upon it. I did it, of course, for his sake; for I knew that the arrangement would be of advantage to him in various ways, but I was also glad to be of service to your daughter, of whom I had heard a good report. Furthermore, I interested myself very much in getting you lodgings, and found you a home at Mrs. Brinkly's that I hoped you would like. If I had not done so, I think you would have been obliged to go to the hotel, which is not pleasant and much more expensive than a private house. I do not mention these things, madam, because I wish to be thanked, or anything of that sort; far from it. I did what I did because I thought it was right; but I must admit, if you will excuse my mentioning it, that I was surprised, to say the least, that I was not consulted, in the slightest degree, on the occasion of your leaving the home I had secured for you."

"I am very sorry," said Mrs. Drane, "that I should appear to have been discourteous to one who had done us a service, for which, I assure you, we are both very much obliged, but Dr. and Mrs. Tolbridge managed the whole affair of our removal from Mrs. Brinkly's house, and I did not suppose there was any one, besides them and ourselves, who would take the slightest interest in the matter."

"Oh, I find no fault," said Miss Panney. "It is not an affair of importance, but I think you will agree, madam, that after the interest I had shown in procuring you suitable accommodation, I might have been spared what some people might consider the mortification of being told, when I stated to Mrs. Tolbridge that I intended to call upon you, that you were not then living with the lady whose consent to receive you into her family I had obtained, after a great deal of personal solicitation and several visits."

Upon this presentation of the matter, Mrs. Drane could not help thinking that the old lady had been treated somewhat uncivilly, and expressed her regret in the most suitable terms she could think of, adding that she was sure that Miss Panney would agree that the change had been an excellent one.

"Of course, of course," said Miss Panney. "For a temporary country residence, I suppose you could not have found a better spot, though it must be a long walk for your daughter when she goes to submit her work to Dr. Tolbridge."

"That has not yet been necessary," said Mrs. Drane; "Mr. Haverley is very kind—"

At this point Miss Panney rose. She had said all she wanted to say, and to decline to hear anything about Ralph Haverley's having been seen driving about with a young woman who had been engaged as Dr. Tolbridge's secretary, was much better than speaking of it, and she took her leave with a prim politeness.

Mrs. Drane was left in an uncomfortable state of mind. It was not pleasant to be reminded that this delightful country house was only a temporary home, for that implied a return to Thorbury, a town she disliked; and although she had, of course, expected to go back there, she had not allowed the matter to dwell in her mind at all, putting it into the future, without consideration, as she liked to do with things that were unpleasant.

Moreover, there was something, she could not tell exactly what, about Miss Panney's words and manner, which put an unsatisfactory aspect upon the obvious methods of Cicely's communications with her employer.

Mrs. Drane's mind had already been slightly disturbed on this subject, but Miss Panney had revived and greatly increased the disturbance.



CHAPTER XXX

A CONFIDENTIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

Having finished her visit of ceremony, Miss Panney asked permission of Miriam to see Molly Tooney. That woman was, in a measure, her protege, and she had some little business with her. Declining to have the cook sent for, Miss Panney descended to the kitchen.

She had not talked with Molly more than five minutes, and had not approached the real subject of the interview, which concerned the social relations between the Haverleys and the Dranes, when the Irishwoman lifted up her hands, and opened wide her eyes.

"The Saints an' the Sinners!" she exclaimed, "if here isn't that auld drab of a sausage, that cook of the docther's, a comin' here again to tell me how to cook for them Dranes. Bad luck to them, they don't pay me nothin', an' only give me trouble."

Miss Panney turned quickly, and through the window she saw La Fleur approaching the kitchen door.

"She comes here to tell you how to cook for those people?" said Miss Panney, quickly.

"Indade she does, an' it's none of her business, nather, the meddlin' auld porpoise."

"Molly," said Miss Panney, "go away and leave me here. I want to talk to this woman."

"Which is more than I do," said the cook, and straightway departed to the floor above.

La Fleur had come to see Mrs. Drane, but perceiving Miss Panney's phaeton at the door, she had concluded that there was company in the house, and had consequently betaken herself to the kitchen to make inquiries. When she found there Miss Panney, instead of Molly Tooney, La Fleur was surprised, but pleased, for she remembered the old lady as one who appreciated good cookery and a good cook.

"How do you do, La Fleur," said Miss Panney. "I am glad to see you. I suppose you still keep up your old interest in Mrs. Drane and her daughter. Do you often find time to come out here to see them?"

"Not often, madam, but sometimes. I can always find time for what I really want to do. If I like to be away for an hour or two, I'll sit up late the night before, long after midnight sometimes, planning the meals and the courses for the next day, and when I go away, I leave everything so that I can take it right up, the minute I get back, and lose nothing in time or in any other way."

"It is only a born chef who could do that," said Miss Panney, "and it is very pleasant to see your affection for your former employers. Do you suppose that they will remain here much longer?"

"Remain!" exclaimed La Fleur; "they've never said a word to me, madam, about going away, and I don't believe they have thought of it. I am sure I haven't."

Miss Panney shook her head.

"It's none of my business," she said, "but I've lived a long time in this world, and that gives me a right to speak my mind to people who haven't lived so long. It may have been all very well for the Dranes to have come here for a little vacation of a week or ten days, but to stay on and on is not the proper thing at all, and if you really have a regard for them, La Fleur, I think it is your duty to make them understand this. You might not care to speak plainly, of course, but you can easily make them perceive the situation, without offending them, or saying anything which an old servant might not say, in a case like this."

"But, madam," said La Fleur, "what's to hinder their stopping here? There's no spot on earth that could suit them better, to my way of thinking."

"La Fleur," said Miss Panney, regarding the other with moderate severity, "you ought to know that when people see a young woman like Miss Drane brought to live in a house with a handsome young gentleman, who, to all intents and purposes, is keeping a bachelor's hall,—for that girl upstairs is entirely too young to be considered a mistress of a house,—and when they know that the young lady's mother is a lady in impoverished circumstances, the people are bound to say, when they talk, that that young woman was brought here on purpose to catch the master of the house, and I don't think, La Fleur, that you would like to hear that said of Mrs. Drane."

As she listened, the bodily eyes of La Fleur were contracted until they were almost shut, but her mental eyes opened wider and wider. She suspected that there was something back of Miss Panney's words.

"If I heard anybody say that, madam, meaning it, I don't think they would care to say it to me again. But leaving out all that and looking at the matter with my lights, it does seem to me that if Mr. Haverley wanted a mistress for his house, and felt inclined to marry Miss Cicely Drane, he couldn't make a better choice."

"Choice!" repeated Miss Panney, sarcastically. "He has no choice to make. That is settled, and that is the very reason why people will talk the more and sharper, and nothing you can say, Madam Jane La Fleur, will stop them. Not only does this look like a scheme to marry Mr. Haverley to a girl who can bring him nothing, but to break off a most advantageous match with a lady who, in social position, wealth, and in every way, stands second to no one in this county."

"And who may that be, please?" asked La Fleur.

Miss Panney hesitated. It would be a bold thing to give the answer that was on her tongue, but she was no coward, and this was a crisis of importance. A proper impression made upon this woman might be productive of more good results than if made upon any one else.

"It is Miss Dora Bannister," she said, "and of course you know all about the Bannister family. I tell you this, because I consider that, under the circumstances, you ought to know it, but I expect you to mention it to no one, for the matter has not been formally announced. Now, I am sure that a woman of your sense can easily see what the friends of Mr. Haverley, who know all about the state of affairs, will think and say when they see Mrs. Drane's attempt to get for her daughter what rightfully belongs to another person."

If it had appeared to the mind of La Fleur that it was a dreadful thing to get for one's daughter a lifelong advantage which happened to belong to another, she might have greatly resented this imputation against Mrs. Drane. But as she should not have hesitated to try and obtain said advantage, if there was any chance of doing it, the imputation lost force. She did not, therefore, get angry, but merely asked, wishing to get as deep into the matter as possible, "And then it is all settled that he's to marry Miss Bannister?"

"Everything is not yet arranged, of course," said Miss Panney, speaking rapidly, for she heard approaching footsteps, "and you are not to say anything about all this or mention me in connection with it. I only spoke to you for the sake of the Dranes. It is your duty to get them away from here."

She had scarcely finished speaking when Miriam entered the kitchen. La Fleur had never seen her before, for on her previous visit it had been Ralph who had given her permission to interview Molly Tooney, and she regarded her with great interest. La Fleur's long years of service had given her many opportunities of studying the characters of mistresses, in high life as well as middle life, but never had she seen a mistress like this school-girl, with her hair hanging down her back.

Miriam advanced toward La Fleur.

"My cook told me that you were here, and I came down, thinking that you might want to see me."

"This is Madam La Fleur," interpolated Miss Panney, "the celebrated chef who cooks for Dr. Tolbridge. She came, I think, to see Mrs. Drane."

"Not altogether. Oh, no, indeed," said La Fleur, humbly smiling and bowing, with her eyes downcast and her head on one side. "I wished, very much, also, to pay my respects to Miss Haverley. I am only a cook, and I am much obliged to this good lady—Miss Panic, I think is the name—"

"Panney," sharply interpolated the old lady.

"Beg pardon, I am sure, Miss Panney—for what she has said about me; but when I come to pay my respects to Mrs. Drane, I wish to do the same to the lady of the house."

There was a gravity and sedateness in Miriam's countenance, which was not at all school-girlish, and which pleased La Fleur; in her eyes it gave the girl an air of distinction.

"I am glad to see you," said Miriam, and turned to Miss Panney, as if wondering at that lady's continued stay in the kitchen. Miss Panney understood the look.

"I am getting points from La Fleur, my dear," she said, "cooking points,—you ought to do that. She can give you the most wonderful information about things you ought to know. Now, La Fleur, as you want to see Mrs. Drane, and it is time I had started for home, it will be well for us to go upstairs and leave the kitchen to Molly Tooney."

Miss Panney was half way up the stairs when La Fleur detained Miriam by a touch on the arm.

"I will give you all the points you want, my dear young lady," she said. "You have brains, and that is the great thing needful in overseeing cooking. And I will come some day on purpose to tell you how the dishes that your brother likes, and you like, ought to be cooked to make them delicious, and you shall be able to tell any one how they should be done, and understand what is the matter with them if they are not done properly. All this the lady of the house ought to know, and I can tell you anything you ask me, for there is nothing about cooking that I do not thoroughly understand; but I will not go upstairs now, and I will not detain you from your visitor. I will take a turn in the grounds, and when the lady has gone, I will ask leave to speak with Mrs. Drane."

With her head on one side, and her smile and her bow, La Fleur left the kitchen by the outer door. She stepped quickly toward the barn, looking right and left as she walked. She wished very much to see Mike, and presently she had that pleasure. He had just come out of the barnyard, and was closing the gate. She hurried toward him, for, although somewhat porpoise-built, she was vigorous and could walk fast.

"I am so pleased to see you, Michael," she said. "I have brought you something which I think you will like," and, opening a black bag which she carried on her arm, she produced a package wrapped in brown paper.

"This," she said, opening the wrapping, "is a pie—a veal and 'am pie—such as you would not be likely to find in this country, unless you got me to make it for you. I baked it early this morning, intending to come here, and being sure you would like it; and you needn't have any scruples about taking it. I bought everything in it with my own money. I always do that when I cook little dishes for people I like."

The pie had been brought as a present for Mrs. Drane, but, feeling that it was highly necessary to propitiate the only person on the place who might be of use to her, La Fleur decided to give the pie to Mike.

The face of the colored man beamed with pleasure.

"Veal and ham. Them two things ought to go together fust rate, though I've never eat 'em in that way. An' in a pie, too; that looks mighty good. An' how do ye eat it, Mrs.—'scuse me, ma'am, but I never can rightly git hold of yer name."

"No wonder, no wonder," said the other; "it is a French name. My second husband was a Frenchman. A great cook, Michael,—a Frenchman. But the English of the name is flower, and you can call me Mrs. Flower. You can surely remember that, Michael."

Mike grinned widely.

"Oh, yes indeed, ma'am," said he; "no trouble 'bout that, 'specially when I think what pie crust is made of, an' that you's a cook."

"Oh, it isn't that kind of flower," said La Fleur, laughing; "but it doesn't matter a bit,—it sounds the same. And now, Michael, you must warm this and eat it for your dinner. Have you a fire in your house?"

"I can make one in no time," said Mike. "Then you think I'd better not let the cook warm it for me?"

"You are quite right," said La Fleur. "I don't believe she's half as good a cook as you are, Michael, for I've heard that all colored people have a knack that way; and like as not she'd burn it to a crisp."

Wrapping up the pie and handing it to the delighted negro, La Fleur proceeded to business, for she felt she had no time to lose.

"And how are you getting on, Michael?" said she. "I suppose everybody is very busy preparing for the master's wedding."

"The what!" exclaimed Mike, his eyebrows elevating themselves to such a degree that his hat rose.

"Mr. Haverley's marriage with Miss Dora Bannister. Isn't that to take place very soon, Michael?"

Mike put his pie on the post of the barn gate, took off his hat, and wiped his brow with his shirt-sleeve.

"Bless my evarlastin' soul, Mrs. Flower! who on this earth told you that?"

"Is it then such a great secret? Miss Panney told it to me not twenty minutes ago."

Mike put on his hat; he took his pie from the post, and held it, first in one hand and then in the other. He seemed unable to express what he thought.

"Look a here, Mrs. Flower," he said presently, "she told you that, did she?"

"She really did," was the answer.

"Well, then," said Mike, "the long an' the short of it is, she lies. 'Tain't the fust time that old Miss Panney has done that sort of thing. She comes to me one day, more than six year ago, an' says, 'Mike,' says she, 'why don't you marry Phoebe Moxley?' ''Cause I don't want to marry her, nor nobody else,' says I. 'But you ought to,' said she, 'for she's a good woman an' a nice washer an' ironer, an' you'd do well together.' 'Don't want no washin' nor ironin', nor no Phoebe, neither,' says I. But she didn't mind nothin' what I said, an' goes an' tells everybody that me an' Phoebe was goin' to be married; an' then it was we did git married, jest to stop people talkin' so much about it, an' now look at us. Me never so much as gittin' a bite of corn-bread, an' she a boardin' the minister! Jes' you take my word for it, Mrs. Flower, old Miss Panney wants Miss Dora to marry him, an' she's goin' about tellin' people, thinkin' that after a while they'll do it jes' 'cause everybody 'spects them to."

"But don't you think they intend to marry, Mike?" forgetting to address him by his full name.

Mike was about to strike the pie in his right hand with his left, in order to give emphasis to his words, but he refrained in time.

"Don't believe one cussed word of it," said he. "Mr. Haverley ain't the man to do that sort of thing without makin' some of his 'rangements p'int that way, an' none of his 'rangements do p'int that way. If he'd been goin' to git married, he'd told me, you bet, an' we'd laid out the farm work more suitable for a weddin' than it is laid out. I ain't goin' to believe no word about no weddin' till I git it from somebody better nor Miss Panney. If he was goin' to marry anybody, he'd be more like to marry that purty little Miss Drane. She's right here on the spot, an' she ain't pizen proud like them Bannisters. She's as nice as cake, an' not stuck up a bit. Bless my soul! She don't know one thing about nothin'."

"You're very much mistaken, Michael," exclaimed La Fleur. "She is very well educated, and has been sent to the best schools."

"Oh, I don't mean school larnin'," said Mike; "I mean 'bout cows an' chickens. She'll come here when I'm milkin', an' ask me things about the critters an' craps that I knowed when I was a baby. I reckon she's the kind of a lady that knows all about what's in her line, an' don't know nothin' 'bout what's not in her line. That's the kind of young lady I like. No spyin' around to see what's been did, an' what's hain't been did. I've lived with them Bannisters."

La Fleur gazed reflectively upon the ground.

"I never thought of it before," she said, "but Miss Cicely would make a very good wife for a gentleman like Mr. Haverley. But that's neither here nor there, and none of our business, Michael. But if you hear anything more about this marriage between Mr. Haverley and Miss Bannister, I wish you'd come and tell me. I've had a deal of curiosity to know if that old lady's been trying to make a fool of me. It isn't of any consequence, but it is natural to have a curiosity about such things, and I shall be very thankful to you if you will bring me any news that you may get. And when you come, Michael, you may be sure that you will not go away hungry, be it daytime or night."

"Oh, I'll come along, you bet," said Mike, "an' I am much obleeged to you, Mrs. Flower, for this here pie."

When the good cook had gone to speak with Mrs. Drane, Mike repaired to the woodshed, where, picking up an axe, he stood for some moments regarding a short, knotty log on end in front of him. His blood flowed angrily.

"Marry that there Bannister girl," he said to himself. "A pretty piece of business if that family was to come here with their money an' their come-up-ence. They'd turn everythin' upside down on this place. No use for ramshackle farmin' they'd have, an' no use for me, nuther, with their top boots an' stovepipe hats."

Mike had been discharged from the Bannisters' service because of his unwillingness to pay any attention to his personal appearance.

"If that durned Miss Panney," he continued, "keeps on tellin' that to the people, things will be a cussed sight worse than me a livin' here without decent vittles, an' Phoebe a boardin' that minister that ain't paid no board yit. Blast them all, I say." And with that he lifted up his axe and brought it down on the end of the upturned log with such force that it split into two jagged portions.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE TEABERRY GOWN IS DONNED

When Miss Panney had driven herself away from Cobhurst and Dr. Tolbridge's cook had finished her conference with Mrs. Drane and had gone out to the barn to look for her carriage, Miriam Haverley was left with an impression upon her mind. This was to the effect that there was a good deal of managing and directing going on in the house with which she had nothing to do.

Miss Panney went into her kitchen to talk to Molly Tooney, and when she did not want to talk to her any more she sent her upstairs, in order that she might talk to Dr. Tolbridge's cook, which latter person had come into her kitchen, as Molly had informed her after La Fleur's departure, for the purpose of finding fault with the family cooking. Whether or not the old woman had felt herself called upon to instruct Mike in regard to his duty, she did not know, but when Miriam went into the orchard for some apples, she had seen her talking to him at the barn gate, and when she came out again, she saw her there still. Even Ralph took a little too much on himself, though of course he did not mean anything by it, but he had told Molly Tooney that she ought to have breakfast sooner in order that Miss Drane and he might get more promptly to their work. While considering her impression, Molly Tooney came to Miriam, her face red.

"What do you think, miss," said she, "that old bundle of a cook that was here this mornin' has been doin'? She's been bringin' cauld vittles from the docther's kitchen to that nager Mike, as if you an' Mr. Haverley didn't give him enough to eat. I looked in at his winder, a wonderin' what he wanted wid a fire in summer time, an' saw him heatin' the stuff. It's an insult to me an' the family, miss, that's what it is." And the irate woman rested her knuckles on her hips.

Miriam's face turned a little pink.

"I will inquire about that, Molly," she said, and her impression became a conviction.

Toward the close of the afternoon, Miriam went up to her room, and spreading out on the bed the teaberry gown of Judith Pacewalk, she stood looking at it. She intended to put on that gown and wear it. But it did not fit her. It needed all sorts of alterations, and how to make these she did not know; sewing and its kindred arts had not been taught in the schools to which she had been sent. It is true that Miss Panney had promised to cut and fit this gown for her, but Miriam did not wish Miss Panney to have anything to do with it. That old lady seemed entirely too willing to have to do with her affairs.

While Miriam thus cogitated, Cicely Drane passed the open door of her room, and seeing the queer old-fashioned dress upon the bed, she stopped, and asked what it was. Miriam told the whole story of Judith Pacewalk, which greatly interested Cicely, and then she stated her desire to alter the dress so that she could wear it. But she said nothing about her purpose in doing this. She was growing very fond of Cicely, but she did not feel that she knew her well enough to entirely open her heart to her, and tell her of her fears and aspirations in regard to her position in the home so dear to her.

"Wear it, my dear?" exclaimed Cicely. "Why, of course I would. You may not have thought of it, but since you have told me that story, it seems to me that the fitness of things demands that you should wear that gown. As to the fitness of the dress itself, I'll help you about that. I can cut, sew, and do all that sort of thing, and together we will make a lovely gown of it for you. I do not think we ought to change the style and fashion of it, but we can make it smaller without making it anything but the delightful old-timey gown that it is. And then let me tell you another thing, dear Miriam: you must really put up your hair. You will never be treated with proper respect by your cook until you do that. Mother and I have been talking about this, and thought that perhaps we ought to mention it to you, because you would not be likely to think of it yourself, but we thought we had no right to be giving you advice, and so said nothing. But now I have spoken of it, and how angry are you?"

"Not a bit," answered Miriam; "and I shall put up my hair, if you will show me how to do it."

So long as the Dranes admitted that they had no right to give her advice, Miriam was willing that they should give her as much as they pleased.

For several days Cicely and Miriam cut and stitched and fitted and took in and let out, and one morning Miriam came down to breakfast attired in the pink chintz gown, its skirt touching the floor, and with her long brown hair tastefully done up in a knot upon her head.

"What a fine young woman has my little sister grown into!" exclaimed Ralph. "To look at you, Miriam, it seems as if years must have passed since yesterday. That is the pink dress that Dora Bannister wore when she was here, isn't it?"

This remark irritated Miriam a little; Ralph saw the irritation, and was sorry that he had made the remark. It was surprising how easily Miriam was irritated by references to Dora.

"I lent it once," said his sister, as she took her seat at the table, "but I shall not do it again."

That day Mike was interviewed in regard to what might be called his foreign maintenance. The ingenuous negro was amazed. His Irish and his African temperaments struggled together for expression.

"Bless my soul, Miss Miriam," he said; "nobody in this world ever brought me nuthin' to eat, 'cause they know'd I didn't need it, an' gittin' the best of livin' right here in your house, Miss Miriam, an' if they had brought it I wouldn't have took it an' swallowed the family pride; an' what's more, the doctor's cook didn't bring that pie on purpose for me. She just comed down here to ax me how to make real good corn-cakes, knowin' that I was a fust-rate cook, an' could make corn-cakes, an' she wanted to know how to do it. When I tole her jes' how to do it,—ash-cakes, griddle-cakes, batter-cake, every kin' of cake,—she was so mighty obligated that she took a little bit of a pie, made of meat, out of the bag what she'd brought along to eat on the way home, not feelin' hungry at lunch time, an' give it to me. An' not wantin' to hurt her feelin's, I jes' took it, an' when I went to my house I het it an' eat it, an' bless your soul, Miss Miriam, it did taste good; for that there woman in the kitchen don't give me half enough to eat, an' never no corn-bread an' ham fat, which is mighty cheap, Miss Miriam, an' a long sight better for a workin' pusson than crusts of wheat bread a week old an'—"

"You don't mean to say," interrupted Miriam, "that Molly does not give you enough to eat? I'll speak to her about that. She ought to be ashamed of herself."

"Now look here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, speaking more earnestly, "don't you go an' do that. If you tell her that, she'll go an' make me the biggest corn-pone anybody ever seed, an' she'll put pizen into it. Oh, it'd never do to say anythin' like that to Molly Tooney, if she's got me to feed. Jes' let me tell you, Miss Miriam, don't you say nothin' to Molly Tooney 'bout me. I never could sleep at night if I thought she was stirrin' up pizen in my vittles. But I tell you, Miss Miriam, if you was to say Molly, that you an' Mr. Haverley liked corn-cakes an' was always used to 'em before you come here, an' that they 'greed with you, then in course she'd make 'em, an' there'd be a lot left over for me, for I don't 'spect you all could eat the corn-bread she'd make, but I'd eat it, bein' so powerful hungry for corn-meal."

"Mike," said Miriam, "you shall have corn-bread, but that is all nonsense about Molly. I do not see how you could get such a notion into your head."

Mike gave himself a shrug.

"Now look a here, Miss Miriam," he said; "I've heard before of red-headed cooks, an' colored pussons as wasn't satisfied with their victuals, an' nobody knows what they died of, an' the funerals was mighty slim, an' no 'count, the friends an' congregation thinkin' there might be somethin' 'tagious. Them red-headed kind of cooks is mighty dangerous, Miss Miriam, an' lemme tell you, the sooner you git rid of them, the better."

Miriam's previous experiences had brought her very little into contact with negroes, and although she did not care very much about what Mike was saying, it interested her to hear him talk. His intonations and manner of expressing himself pleased her fancy. She could imagine herself in the sunny South, talking to an old family servant. This fancy was novel and pleasant. Mike liked to talk, and was shrewd enough to see that Miriam liked to listen to him. He determined to take advantage of this opportunity to find out something in regard to the doleful news brought to him by La Fleur and which, he feared, might be founded upon fact.

"Now look here, Miss Miriam," said he, lowering his voice a little, but not enough to make him seem disrespectfully confidential, "what you want is a first-class colored cook—not Phoebe, she's no good cook, an' won't live in the country, an' is so mighty stuck up that she don't like nuthin' but wheat bread, an' ain't no 'count anyway. But I got a sister, Miss Miriam. She's a number one, fust-class cook, knows all the northen an' southen an' easten an' westen kind of cookin', an' she's only got two chillun, what could keep in the house all day long an' not trouble nobody, 'side bringin' kindlin' an' runnin' errands; an' the husband, he's dead, an' that's a good sight better, Miss Miriam, than havin' him hangin' round, eatin' his meals here, an' bein' no use, 'cause he had rheumatism all over him, 'cept on his appetite."

This suggestion pleased Miriam; here was a chance for another old family servant.

"I think I should like to have your sister, Mike," she said; "what is her name? Is she working for anybody now?"

"Her name is Seraphina—Seraphina Paddock. Paddock was his name. She's keepin' house now, an' takin' in washin', down to Bridgeport. I reckon she's like to come here an' live, mighty well."

"I wish you'd tell her to come and see me," said Miriam. "I think it would be a very good thing for us to have a colored cook."

"Mighty good thing. There ain't nothin' better than a colored cook; but jus' let me tell you, Miss Miriam, my sister's mighty particular 'bout goin' to places an' takin' her family, an' furniture, an' settin' herself up to live when she don't know whether things is fixed an' settled there, or whether the fust thing she knows is she's got to pull up stakes an' git out agin."

"I am sure everything is fixed and settled here," said Miriam, in surprise.

"Well, now look a here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, "'spose you was clean growed up, an' you're near that now, as anybody can see, an' you was goin' to git married to somebody, or 'spose Mr. Haverley was goin' to git married to somebody, why don' you see you'd go way with your husband, an' your brother he'd come here with his new wife, an' everything would be turned over an' sot upside down, an' then Seraphina, she'd have to git up an' git, for there'd sure to be a new kin' of cook wanted or else none, an' Seraphina, she'd fin' her house down to Bridgeport rented to somebody who had gone way without payin' the rent, an' had been splittin' kindlin' on the front steps an' hacking 'em all up, and white-washin' the kitchen what she papered last winter to hide the grease spots what they made through living like pigs, an' Seraphina, she can't stand nothing like that."

Miriam burst out laughing.

"Mike," she cried, "nobody is going to get married here."

Mike's eyes glistened.

"That so, sure?" he said. "You see, Miss Miriam, you an' your brother is both so 'tractive, that I sort o' 'sposed you might be thinkin' of gittin' married, an' if that was so, I couldn't go to Seraphina, an' git her to come here when things wasn't fixed an' settled."

"If that is all that would keep your sister from coming," said Miriam, "she need not trouble herself."

"Now look a here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, quickly, "of course everything in this world depends on sarcumstances, an' if it happened that Mr. Hav'ley was the one to git married, an' he was to take some lady that was livin' here anyway an' was used to the place, an' the ways of the house, an' didn't want to go anywheres else an' wanted to stay here an' not to chance nothin' an' have the same people workin' as worked before, like Miss Drane, say, with her mother livin' here jes' the same, an' you keepin' house jes' as you is now, an' all goin' on without no upsottin', of course Seraphina, she wouldn't mind that. She'd like mighty well to come, whether your brother was married or not; but supposin' he married a lady like Miss Dora Bannister. Bless my soul, Miss Miriam, everything in this place would be turned heels up an' heads down, an' there wouldn't be no colored pussons wanted in this 'stablishment, Seraphina nor me nuther, an' I reckon you wouldn't know the place in six months, Miss Miriam, with that Miss Dora runnin' it, an' old Miss Panney with her fingers in the pie, an' nobody can't help her doin' that when Miss Dora is concerned, an' you kin see for yourself, Miss Miriam, that Seraphina, an' me, too, is bound to be bounced if it was to come to that."

"I will talk to you again about your sister," said Miriam, and she went away, amused.

Mike was delighted.

"It's all a cussed old lie, jes' as I thought it wuz," said he to himself; "an' that old Miss Panney'll fin' them young uns is harder nuts to crack than me an' Phoebe wuz. I got in some good licks fur dat purty Miss Cicely, too."

Miriam's amusement gradually faded away as she approached the house. At first it had seemed funny to hear any one talk about Ralph or herself getting married, but now it did not appear so funny. On the contrary, that part of Mike's remarks which concerned Ralph and Dora was positively depressing. Suppose such a thing were really to happen; it would be dreadful. She had thought her brother overfond of Dora's society, but the matter had never appeared to her in the serious aspect in which she saw it now.

She had intended to find Ralph, and speak to him about Mike's sister; but now she changed her mind. She was wearing the teaberry gown, and she would attend to her own affairs as mistress of the house. If Ralph could be so cruel as to marry Dora, and put her at the head of everything,—and if she were here at all, she would want to be at the head of everything,—then she, Miriam, would take off the teaberry gown, and lock it up in the old trunk.

"But can it be possible," she asked herself, as a tear or two began to show themselves in her eyes, "that Ralph could be so cruel as that?"

As she reached the door of the house, Cicely Drane was coming out. Involuntarily Miriam threw her arms around her and folded her close to the teaberry gown.

Miriam was not in the habit of giving away to outbursts of this sort, and as she released Cicely she said with a little apologetic blush,—

"It is so nice to have you here. I feel as if you ought not ever to go away."

"I am sure I do not want to go, dear," said Cicely, with the smile of good-fellowship that always went to the heart of Miriam.



CHAPTER XXXII

MISS PANNEY FEELS SHE MUST CHANGE HER PLANS

Molly Tooney waited with some impatience the result of Miriam's interview with Mike. If the "nager" should be discharged for taking cold victuals like a beggar, Molly would be glad of it; it would suit her much better to have a nice Irish boy in his place.

But when Miriam told her cook that evening that Mike had satisfactorily explained the matter of the pie, and also remarked that in future she would like to have bread or cakes made of corn-meal, and that she couldn't see any reason why Mike, who was accustomed to this sort of food, should not have it always, Molly's soul blazed within her; it would have burst out into fiery speech; but the girl before her, although young, was so quiet and sedate, so suggestive of respect, that Molly, scarcely knowing why she did it, curbed herself; but she instantly gave notice that she wished to quit the place on the next day.

When Ralph heard this, he was very angry, and wanted to go and talk to the woman.

"Don't you do anything of the kind," said Miriam. "It is not your business to talk to cooks. I do that. And I want to go to-morrow to Thorbury and get some one to come to us by the day until the new cook arrives. If I can get her, I am going to engage Seraphina, Mike's sister."

Ralph looked at her and laughed.

"Well, well, Miss Teaberry," he said, "you are getting on bravely. Putting up your hair and letting down your skirts has done wonders. You are the true lady of the house now."

"And what have you to say against that?" asked Miriam.

"Not a word!" he cried. "I like it, I am charmed with it, and I will drive you into Thorbury to-morrow. And as to Mike's sister, you can have all his relations if you like, provided they do not charge too much. If we had a lot of darkies here, that would make us more truly ramshackle and jolly than we are now."

"Ralph," said Miriam, with dignity, "stop pulling my ears. Don't you see Mrs. Drane coming?"

The next day Miriam and Ralph jogged into Thorbury. Miriam, not wearing the teaberry gown, but having its spirit upon her, had planned to inquire of the grocer with whom she dealt, where she might find a woman such as she needed, but Ralph did not favor this.

"Let us first go and see Mrs. Tolbridge," he said. "She is one of our first and best friends, and probably knows every woman in town, and if she doesn't, the doctor does."

This last point had its effect upon Miriam. She wanted to see Dr. Tolbridge to ask if he could not stop in and quiet the mind of Cicely, who really wanted to see him about her work, but who did not like, as Miriam easily conjectured, to ask Ralph to send her to town. Miriam wished to make things as pleasant as possible for Cicely, and Mrs. Tolbridge had not, so far, meddled in the least with her concerns. If, inadvertently, Ralph had proposed a consultation with Mrs. Bannister, there would have been a hubbub in the gig.

The doctor and his wife were both at home, and when the business of the Haverleys had been stated to them, Mrs. Tolbridge clapped her hands.

"Truly," she cried, "this is a piece of rare good fortune; we will lend them La Fleur. Do you know, my dear girl," she said to Miriam, "that the doctor and I are going away? He will attend a medical convention at Barport, and I will visit my mother, to whom he will come, later. It will be a grand vacation for us, for we shall stay away from Thorbury for two weeks, and the only thing which has troubled us is to decide what we shall do with La Fleur while we are gone. We want to shut up the house, and she does not want to go to her friends, and if she should do so, I am afraid we might lose her. I am sure she would be delighted to come to you, especially as the Dranes are with you. Shall I ask her?"

Miriam jumped to her feet, with an expression of alarm on her countenance, which amused the doctor and her brother.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Tolbridge, don't do that!" she exclaimed. "Truly, I could not have a great cook like La Fleur in our kitchen. I should be frightened to death, and she would have nothing to do anything with. You know, Mrs. Tolbridge, that we live in an awfully plain way. We are not in the least bit rich or stylish or anything of the sort. If Cicely had not told me that she and her mother lived in the same way, we could not have taken them. We keep only a man and a woman, you know, and we all do a lot of work ourselves, and Molly Tooney was always growling because there were not enough things to cook with, and what a French cook would do in our kitchen I really do not know. She would drive us crazy!"

"Come now," said the doctor, laughing, "don't frighten yourself in that way, my little lady. If La Fleur consents to go to you for a couple of weeks, she will understand the circumstances, and will be perfectly satisfied with what she finds. She is a woman of sense. You would better let Mrs. Tolbridge go and talk with her."

Miriam sat down in a sort of despair. Here again, her affairs were being managed for her. Would she ever be able to maintain her independence? She had said all she could say, and now she hoped that La Fleur would treat the proposition with contempt.

But the great cook did nothing of the kind. In five minutes, Mrs. Tolbridge returned with the information that La Fleur would be overjoyed to go to Cobhurst for a fortnight. She wanted some country air; she wanted to see the Dranes; she had a great admiration for Miss Haverley, being perfectly able to judge, although she had met her but once, that she was a lady born; she looked upon her brother as a most superior gentleman; and she would be perfectly content with whatever she found in the Cobhurst kitchen.

"She says," added Mrs. Tolbridge, "that if you give her a gridiron, a saucepan, and a fire, she will cook a meal fit for a duke. With brains, she says, one can make up all deficiencies."

Ralph took his sister aside.

"Do go out and see her, Miriam," he said. "If we take her, we shall oblige our friends here, and please everybody. It will only be for a little while, and then you can have your old colored mammy and the pickaninnies, just as you have planned."

When Miriam came back from the kitchen, she found that the doctor had left the house and was going to his buggy at the gate.

"Oh, Ralph!" she exclaimed, "you do not know what a nice woman she is. She is just like an old family nurse." And then she ran out to catch the doctor, and talk to him about Cicely.

"Your sister is a child yet," remarked Mrs. Tolbridge, with a smile.

"Indeed she is," said Ralph; "and she longs for what she never had—old family servants, household ties, and all that sort of thing. And I believe she would prefer a good old Southern mammy to a fine young lover."

"Of course she would," said Mrs. Tolbridge. "That would be natural to any girl of her age, except, perhaps," she added, "one like Dora Bannister. I believe she was in love when she was fifteen."

It seemed strange to Ralph that the mention of a thing of this sort, which must have happened three or four years ago, and to a lady whom he had known a very short time, should send a little pang of jealousy through his heart, but such was the fact.

There were picnic meals at Cobhurst that day; for La Fleur was not to arrive until the morrow, and they were all very jolly.

Mike was in a state of exuberant delight at the idea of having that good Mrs. Flower in the place of Molly Tooney. He worked until nearly twelve o'clock at night to scour and brighten the kitchen and its contents for her reception.

Into this region of bliss there descended, about the middle of the afternoon, a frowning apparition. It was that of Miss Panney, to whom Molly had gone that morning, informing her that she had been discharged without notice by that minx of a girl, who didn't know anything more about housekeeping than she did about blacksmithing, and wanted to put "a dirty, hathen nager" over the head of a first-class Christian cook.

When she heard this news, the old lady was amazed and indignant; and she soundly rated Molly for not coming to her instantly, before she left her place. Had she known of the state of affairs, she was sure she could have pacified Miriam, and arranged for Molly to retain her place. It was very important for Miss Panney, though she did not say so, to have some one in the Cobhurst family who would keep her informed of what was happening there. If possible, Molly must go back; and anyway the old lady determined to go to Cobhurst and look into matters.

Miss Panney was glad to find Miriam alone on the front piazza, training some over-luxuriant vines upon the pillars; and the moment her eyes fell upon the girl, she saw that she was dressed as a woman, and not in the youthful costume in which she had last seen her. This strengthened the old lady's previous impression that Ralph's sister was rapidly becoming the real head of this house, and that it would be necessary to be very careful in her conduct toward her. It might be difficult, even impossible, to carry out her match-making plans if Miriam should rise up in opposition to them.

The old lady was very cordial, and entreated that Miriam should go on with her work, while she sat in an armchair near by. After a little ordinary chat, Miss Panney mentioned that she had heard that Molly Tooney had been discharged. Instantly Miriam's pride arose, and her manner cooled. Here again was somebody meddling with her affairs. In as few words as possible, she stated that the woman had not been discharged, but had left of her own accord without any good reason; that she did not like her, and was glad to get rid of her; that she had an excellent cook in view, and that until this person could come to her, she had engaged, temporarily, a very good woman.

All this she stated without question or remark from Miss Panney; and when she had finished, she began again to tie the vines to their wires. Miss Panney gazed very steadily through her spectacles at the resolute side face of the girl, and said only that she was very glad that Miriam had been able to make such a good arrangement. It was plain enough to her that Molly Tooney must be dropped, but in doing this, Miss Panney would not drop her plans. They would simply be changed to suit circumstances.

Had Miss Panney known who it was who was coming temporarily to the Cobhurst kitchen, it is not likely that she could have glided so quietly from the subject of household service to that of the apple prospect and Miriam's success with hens, and from these to the Dranes.

"Do you expect to have them much longer with you?" she asked. "The work the doctor gave the young lady must be nearly finished. When that is done, I suppose she will go back to town to try to get something to do there."

"Oh, they have not thought of going," said Miriam; "the doctor's book is a very long one, and when I saw him yesterday, he told me that he had ever so much more work for her to do, and he is going to bring it out here before he goes to Barport. I should be very sorry indeed if Cicely had to leave here, and I don't think I should let her do it, work or no work. I like her better and better every day, and it is the greatest comfort and pleasure to have her here. It almost seems as if she were my sister, and Mrs. Drane is just as nice as she can be. She is so good and kind, and never meddles with anything."

Miss Panney listened with great attention. She now saw how she must change her plans. If Ralph were to marry Dora, Miriam must like Dora. As for his own liking, there would be no trouble about that, after the Drane girl should be got rid of. In regard to this riddance, Miss Panney had intended to make an early move and a decided one. Now she saw that this would not do. The Drane girl, that alien intruder, whom Dr. Tolbridge's treachery had thrust into this household, was the great obstacle to the old lady's schemes, but to oust her suddenly would ruin everything. Miriam would rise up in opposition, and at present that would be fatal. Miriam was not a girl whose grief and anger at the loss of one thing could be pacified by the promise of another. Having lost Cicely, she would turn her back upon Dora, and what would be worse, she would undoubtedly turn Ralph's back in that direction.

To this genial young man, his sister was still his chief object on earth. Later, this might not be the case.

When Miriam began to like Dora,—and this must happen, for in Miss Panney's opinion the Bannister girl was in every way ten times more charming than Cicely Drane,—then, cautiously, but with quick vigor, Miss Panney would deliver the blow which would send the Dranes not only from Cobhurst, but back to their old home. In the capacity of an elderly and experienced woman who knew what everybody said and thought, and who was able to make her words go to the very spinal marrow of a sensitive person, she was sure she could do this. And when she had done it, it would cheer her to think that she had not only furthered her plans, but revenged herself on the treacherous doctor.

Now was heard from within, the voice of Cicely, who had come downstairs from her work, and who, not knowing that Miriam had a visitor, was calling to her that it was time to get dinner.

"My dear," said Miss Panney, "go in and attend to your duties, and if you will let me, I shall like ever so much to stay and take dinner with you, and you need not put yourself to the least trouble about me. You ought to have very simple meals now that you are doing your own work. I very much want to become better acquainted with your little friend Cicely and her good mother. Now that I know that you care so much for them, I feel greatly interested in them both, and you know, my dear, there is no way of becoming acquainted with people which is better than sitting at table with them."

Miriam was not altogether pleased, but said the proper things, and went to call Mike to take the roan mare, who was standing asleep between the shafts of her phaeton.

Miss Panney now had her cues; she did not offer to help in any way, and made no suggestions in any direction. At luncheon she made herself agreeable to everybody, and before the meal was over they all thought her a most delightful old lady with a wonderful stock of good stories. On her side Miss Panney was also greatly pleased; she found Ralph even a better fellow than she had thought him. He had not only a sunny temper, but a bright wit, and he knew what was being done in the world. Cicely, too, was satisfactory. She was a most attractive little thing, pretty to a dangerous extent, but in her treatment of Ralph there was not the least sign of flirtation or demureness. She was as free and familiar with him as if she had known him always.

"Men are not apt to marry the girls they have known always," said Miss Panney to herself, "and Dora can do better than this one if she has but the chance; and the chance she must have."

While listening with the most polite attention to a reminiscence related by Mrs. Drane, Miss Panney earnestly considered this subject. She had thought of many plans, some of them vague, but all of the same general character, for bringing Dora and Miriam together and promoting a sisterly affection between them, for her mind had been busy with the subject since Miriam had left her alone on the piazza, but none of the plans suited her. They were clumsy and involved too much action on the part of Dora. Suddenly a satisfying idea shot into the old lady's mind, and she smiled so pleasantly that Mrs. Drane was greatly encouraged, and entered into some details of her reminiscence which she had intended to omit, thinking they might prove tiresome.

"If they only could go away together, somewhere," said Miss Panney to herself, "that would be grand; that would settle everything. It would not be long before Dora and Miriam would be the dearest of chums, and with Ralph's sister away, that Drane girl would have to go. It would all be so natural, so plain, so beautiful."

When Miss Panney drove home, about the middle of the afternoon, she was still smiling complacently at this good idea, and wondering how she might carry it out.



CHAPTER XXXIII

LA FLEUR LOOKS FUTUREWARD

According to his promise, Dr. Tolbridge came to Cobhurst on the morning of his intended departure for Barport, bringing with him more of his manuscript and some other copying which he wished Cicely to do. He had never known until now how much he needed a secretary. He saw only the ladies, Ralph having gone off to try to shoot some woodcock. The young man was not in a good humor, for he had no dog, and his discontent was increased by the reflection that a fine setter had been presented to him, and he had not yet come into possession of it. He wanted the dog, Congo, because he thought it was a good dog, and also because Dora Bannister had given it to him, and he was impatient to carry out the plan which Dora had proposed to get the animal to Cobhurst.

But this plan, which included a visit from Dora, in order that the dog might come to his new home without compulsion, and which, as modified by Ralph, included a drive or a walk through the woods with the donor in order that the dog might learn to follow him, needed Miriam's cooeperation. And this cooeperation he could not induce her to give. She seemed to have all sorts of reasons for putting off the invitation for which Miss Bannister was evidently waiting. Of course there was no reason for waiting, but girls are queer. A word from Miriam would bring her, but Miriam was very unresponsive to suggestions concerning said word.

"It is not only ourselves," said the doctor, in reply to some questions from Mrs. Drane in regard to the intended journey, "who are going this afternoon. We take with us Mrs. Bannister and Dora. This is quite a sudden plan, only determined upon last night. They both want a little Barport life before the season closes, and thought it would be pleasant to go with us."

Mrs. Drane and Cicely were not very much interested in the Bannisters, and received this news tranquilly, but Miriam felt a little touch of remorse, and wished she had asked Dora to come out some afternoon and bring her dog, which poor Ralph seemed so anxious to have. She asked the doctor how long he thought the Bannisters would stay away.

"Oh, we shall pick them up as we come back," he said "and that will be in about two weeks." And with this the busy man departed.

Since the beginning of his practice, Dr. Tolbridge had never gone away from Thorbury for an absence of any considerable duration without first calling on Miss Panney to see if she needed any attention from him before he left, and on this occasion he determined not to depart from this custom. It is true, she was very angry with him, but so far as he could help it, he would not allow her anger to interfere with the preservation of a life which he considered valuable.

When the old lady was told that the doctor had called and had asked for her, she stamped her foot and vowed she would not see him. Then her curiosity to know what brought him there triumphed over her resentment, and she went down. Her reception of him was cold and severe, and she answered his questions regarding her health as if he were a census-taker, exhibiting not the slightest gratitude for his concern regarding her physical well-being, nor the slightest hesitation in giving him information which might enable him to further said well-being.

The doctor was as cool as was his patient; and, when he had finished his professional remarks, informed her that the Bannisters were to go with him to Barport. When Miss Panney heard this she sprang from her chair with the air of an Indian of the Wild West bounding with uplifted tomahawk upon a defenceless foe. The doctor involuntarily pushed back his chair, but before he could make up his mind whether he ought to be frightened or amused, Miss Panney sat down as promptly as she had risen, and a grim smile appeared upon her face.

"How you do make me jump with your sudden announcements," she said. "I am sure I am very glad that Dora is going away. She needed a change, and sea air is better than anything else for her. How long will they stay?"

The slight trace of her old cordiality which showed itself in Miss Panney's demeanor through the few remaining minutes of the interview greatly pleased Dr. Tolbridge.

"She is a good old woman at heart," he said to himself, "and when she gets into one of her bad tempers, the best way to bring her around is to interest her in people she loves, and Dora Bannister is surely one of those."

When the doctor had gone, Miss Panney gave herself up to a half minute of unrestrained laughter, which greatly surprised old Mr. Witton, who happened to be passing the parlor door. Then she sat down to write a letter to Dora Bannister, which she intended that young lady to receive soon after her arrival at Barport.

That afternoon the good La Fleur came to Cobhurst, her soul enlivened by the determination to show what admirable meals could be prepared from the most simple materials, and with the prospect of spending a fortnight with Mrs. Drane and Cicely, and with that noble gentleman, the master of the estate, and to pass these weeks in the country. She was a great lover of things rural: she liked to see, pecking and scratching, the fowls with which she prepared such dainty dishes. In her earlier days, the sight of an old hen wandering near a bed of celery, with a bed of beets in the middle distance, had suggested the salad for which she afterwards became somewhat famous.

She knew a great deal about garden vegetables, and had been heard to remark that brains were as necessary in the culling of fruits and roots and leaves and stems as for their culinary transformation into attractions for the connoisseur's palate. She was glad, too, to have the opportunity of an occasional chat with that intelligent negro Mike, and so far as she could judge, there were no objections to the presence of Miriam in the house.

Ralph did not come back until after La Fleur had arrived, and he returned hungry, and a little more out of humor than when he started away.

"I had hoped," he said to Miriam, "to get enough birds to give the new cook a chance of showing her skill in preparing a dish of game for dinner; but these two, which I may say I accidentally shot, are all I brought. It is impossible to shoot without a dog, and I think I shall go to-morrow morning to see Miss Bannister and ask her to let me take Congo home with me. He will soon learn to know me, and the woodcock season does not last forever."

"But Dora will not be at home," said Miriam; "she goes to Barport to-day with the Tolbridges."

Ralph opened his mouth to speak, and then he shut it again. It was of no use to say anything, and he contented himself with a sigh as he went to the rack to put up his gun. Miriam sighed, too, and as she did so, she hoped that it was the dog and not Dora that Ralph was sighing about.

The next morning there came to Cobhurst a man, bringing a black setter and a verbal message from Miss Bannister to the effect that if Mr. Haverley would tie up the dog and feed him himself for two or three days and be kind to him, she had no doubt Congo would soon know him as his master.

"Now that is the kind of a girl I like," said Ralph to his sister. "She promises to do a thing and she does it, even if the other party is not prompt in stepping forward to attend to his share of the affair."

There was nothing to say against this, and Miriam said nothing, but contented herself with admiring the dog, which was worthy of all the praise she could give him. Congo was tied up, and Mike and Mrs. Drane and Cicely, and finally La Fleur, came to look at him and to speak well of him. When all had gone away but the colored man and the cook, the latter asked why Miss Bannister had been mentioned in connection with this dog.

"'Cause he was her dog," said Mike. "She got him when he was a little puppy no bigger nor a cat, an' you'd a thought, to see her carry him about an' put him in a little bed an' kiver him up o' night an' talk to him like a human bein', that she loved him as much as if he'd been a little baby brother; an' she's thought all the world of him, straight 'long until now, an' she's gone an' give him to Mr. Hav'ley."

La Fleur reflected for a moment.

"Are you sure, Mike," she asked, "that they are not engaged?"

"I'm dead sartain sure of it," he said. "His sister told me so with her own lips. Givin' dogs don't mean nothin', Mrs. Flower. If people married all the people they give dogs to, there'd be an awful mix in this world. Bless my soul, I'd have about eight wives my own self."

La Fleur smiled at Mike's philosophy, and applied his information to the comfort of her mind.

"If his sister says they are not engaged," she thought, "it's like they are not, but it looks to me as if it were time to take the Bannister pot off the fire."

La Fleur now retired to a seat under a tree near the kitchen door, and applied her intellect to the consideration of the dinner, and the future of the Drane family and herself. The present state of affairs suited her admirably. She could desire no change in it, except that Mr. Haverley should marry Miss Cicely in order to give security to the situation. For herself, this was the place above all others at which she would like to live, and a mistress such as Miss Cicely, who knew little of domestic affairs, but appreciated everything that was well done, was the mistress she would like to serve. She would be sorry to leave the good doctor, for whom, as a man of intellect, she had an earnest sympathy, but he did not live in the country, and the Dranes were nearer and dearer to her than he was. He should not be deserted nor neglected. If she came to spend the rest of her life on this fine old estate, she would engage for him a good young cook, who would be carefully instructed by her in regard to the peculiarities of his diet, and who should always be under her supervision. She would get him one from England; she knew of several there who had been her kitchen maids, and she would guarantee that the one she selected would give satisfaction.

Having settled this part of her plan, she now began to ponder upon that important feature of it which concerned the marriage of Miss Cicely with Ralph Haverley. Why, under the circumstances, this should not take place as a mere matter of course and as the most natural thing in the world, she could not imagine. But in all countries young people are very odd, and must be managed. She had not yet had any good opportunity of judging of the relations between these two; she had noticed that they were on very easy and friendly terms with each other, but this was not enough. It might be a long time before people who were jolly good friends came to look upon each other from a marrying point of view. Things ought to be hurried up; that Miss Bannister would be away for two weeks; she, La Fleur, would be here for two weeks. She must try what she could do; the fire must be brightened,—the draught turned on, ashes raked out, kindling-wood thrust in if necessary, to make things hotter. At all events the dinner-bell must ring at the appointed time, in a fortnight, less one day.

Ralph came striding across the lawn, and noticing La Fleur, approached her.

"I am glad to see you," he said, "for I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your beefsteak this morning. One could not get anything better cooked than that at Delmonico's. The dinner last night was very good, too."

"Oh, don't mention that, sir," said La Fleur, who had risen the moment she saw him, and now stood with her head on one side, her eyes cast down, and a long smile on her face. "That dinner was nothing to what I shall give you when Miss Miriam has sent for some things from the town which I want. And as for the steak, I beg you will not judge me until I have got for myself the cuts I want from the butcher. Then you shall see, sir, what I can do for you. In a beautiful home like this, Mr. Haverley, the cooking should be of the noblest and best."

Ralph laughed.

"So long as you stay with us, La Fleur," he said, "I am sure Cobhurst will have all it deserves in that respect."

"Thank you very much, sir," she said, dropping a little courtesy. Then, raising her eyes, she cast them over the landscape and bent them again with a little sigh.

"You are a gentleman of feeling, Mr. Haverley," she said, "and can understand the feelings of another, even if she be an old woman and a cook, and I know you can comprehend my sentiments when I find myself again serving my most gracious former mistress Mrs. Drane, and her lovely daughter, whose beautiful qualities of mind and soul it does not become me to speak of to you, sir. They were most kind to me when I first came to this country, she and her daughter, two angels, sir, whom I would serve forever. Do not think, sir, that I would not gladly serve you and your lady sister, but they are above all. It was last night, sir, as I sat looking out of my window at the beautiful trees in the moonlight, and I have not seen such trees in the moonlight since I lived in the Isle of Wight at Lord Monkley's country house there; La Fleur was his chef, and I was only there on a visit, because at that time I was attending to the education of my boy, who died a year afterward; and I thought then, sir, looking out at the moonlight, that I would go with the Dranes wherever they might go, and I would live with them wherever they might live; that I would serve them always with the best I could do, and that none could do better. But I beg your pardon, sir, for standing here, and talking in this way, sir," and with a little courtesy and with her head more on one side and more bowed down, she shuffled away.

"Now then," said she to herself, as she entered the kitchen, "if I have given him a notion of a wife with a first-class cook attached, it is a good bit of work to begin with."



CHAPTER XXXIV

A PLAN WHICH SEEMS TO SUIT EVERYBODY

Since her drive home from Thorbury with Ralph Haverley, Cicely Drane had not ceased to consider the hypothesis which had been suggested to her that day by La Fleur; but this consideration was accompanied by no plan of action, no defined hopes, no fears, no suspicions, and no change in her manner toward the young man, except that in accordance with her mother's prudential notions, which had been indicated to her in a somewhat general way, she had restricted herself in the matter of tete-a-tetes and dual rambles.

She looked upon the relations between Ralph and herself in the most simple and natural manner possible. She was enjoying life at Cobhurst. It delighted her to see her mother so contented and so well. She was greatly interested in her work, for she was a girl of keen intelligence, and thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed the novel theories and reflections of Dr. Tolbridge. She thought it the jolliest thing in the world to have La Fleur here with them. She was growing extremely fond of Miriam, who, although a good deal younger than herself, appeared to be growing older with wonderful rapidity, and every day to be growing nearer and dearer to her, and she liked Ralph better than any man she had ever met. She knew but little of Dora Bannister and had no reason to suppose that any matrimonial connection between her and Mr. Haverley had ever been thought of; in fact, in the sincerity and naturalness of her disposition, she could see no reason why she should not continue to like Mr. Haverley, to like him better and better, if he gave her reason to do so, and more than that, not to forget the hypothesis regarding him.

La Fleur was not capable of comprehending the situation with the sagacity and insight of Miss Panney, but she was a woman of sense, and was now well convinced that it would never do to speak again to Miss Cicely in the way she had spoken to her in Dr. Tolbridge's hall. In her affection and enthusiasm, she had gone too far that time, and she knew that any further suggestions of the sort would be apt to make the girl fly away like a startled bird. Whatever was to be done must be done without the cooeperation of the young lady.

Miss Panney's letter to Dora Bannister contained some mild reproaches for the latter's departure from Thorbury without notice to her oldest friend, but her scolding was not severe, and there was as much pleasant information and inquiry as the writer could think of. Moreover, the epistle contained the suggestion that Dora should invite Miriam Haverley to come down and spend some time with her while she was at the seashore. This suggestion none but a very old friend would be likely to make, but Miss Panney was old enough for anything, in friendship or in any other way.

"My mind was on Miriam Haverley," the old lady wrote, "at the moment I heard that you had gone to Barport, and it struck me that a trip of the sort is exactly what that young person needs. She is shut up in the narrowest place in which a girl can be put, with responsibilities entirely beyond her years, and which help to cramp her mind and her ideas. She should have a total change; she should see how the world, outside of her school and her country home, lives and acts—in fact, she needs exactly what Barport and you and Mrs. Bannister can give her. I do not believe that you can bestow a greater benefit upon a fellow-being than to ask Miriam to pay you a visit while you are at the seaside. Think of this, I beg of you, my dear Dora."