The Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Megapack. Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

to the last. Neither had ever spoken to her since she left her home the night of her marriage. They were hard women.

      The three daughters of the disinherited sister had lived quiet and poor, but not actually needy lives. Jane, the middle daughter, had married, and died in less than a year. Amanda and Sophia had taken the girl baby she left when the father married again. Sophia had taught a primary school for many years; she had saved enough to buy the little house in which they lived. Amanda had crocheted lace, and embroidered flannel, and made tidies and pincushions, and had earned enough for her clothes and the child’s, little Flora Scott.

      Their father, William Gill, had died before they were thirty, and now in their late middle life had come the death of the aunt to whom they had never spoken, although they had often seen her, who had lived in solitary state in the old Ackley mansion until she was more than eighty. There had been no will, and they were the only heirs with the exception of young Flora Scott, the daughter of the dead sister.

      Sophia and Amanda thought directly of Flora when they knew of the inheritance.

      “It will be a splendid thing for her; she will have enough to live on when we are gone,” Sophia said.

      She had promptly decided what was to be done. The small house was to be sold, and they were to move into the old Ackley house and take boarders to pay for its keeping. She scouted the idea of selling it. She had an enormous family pride. She had always held her head high when she had walked past that fine old mansion, the cradle of her race, which she was forbidden to enter. She was unmoved when the lawyer who was advising her disclosed to her the fact that Harriet Ackley had used every cent of the Ackley money.

      “I realize that we have to work,” said she, “but my sister and I have determined to keep the place.”

      That was the end of the discussion. Sophia and Amanda Gill had been living in the old Ackley house a fortnight, and they had three boarders: an elderly widow with a comfortable income, a young congregationalist clergyman, and the middle-aged single woman who had charge of the village library. Now the school-teacher from Acton, Miss Louisa Stark, was expected for the summer, and would make four.

      Sophia considered that they were comfortably provided for. Her wants and her sister’s were very few, and even the niece, although a young girl, had small expenses, since her wardrobe was supplied for years to come from that of the deceased aunt. There were stored away in the garret of the Ackley house enough voluminous black silks and satins and bombazines to keep her clad in somber richness for years to come.

      Flora was a very gentle girl, with large, serious blue eyes, a seldom-smiling, pretty mouth, and smooth flaxen hair. She was delicate and very young—sixteen on her next birthday.

      She came home soon now with her parcels of sugar and tea from the grocer’s. She entered the kitchen gravely and deposited them on the table by which her Aunt Amanda was seated stringing beans. Flora wore an obsolete turban-shaped hat of black straw which had belonged to the dead aunt; it set high like a crown, revealing her forehead. Her dress was an ancient purple-and-white print, too long and too large except over the chest, where it held her like a straight waistcoat.

      “You had better take off your hat, Flora,” said Sophia. She turned suddenly to Amanda. “Did you fill the water-pitcher in that chamber for the schoolteacher?” she asked severely. She was quite sure that Amanda had not filled the water-pitcher.

      Amanda blushed and started guiltily. “I declare, I don’t believe I did,” said she.

      “I didn’t think you had,” said her sister with sarcastic emphasis.

      “Flora, you go up to the room that was your Great-aunt Harriet’s, and take the water-pitcher off the wash-stand and fill it with water. Be real careful, and don’t break the pitcher, and don’t spill the water.”

      “In that chamber?” asked Flora. She spoke very quietly, but her face changed a little.

      “Yes, in that chamber,” returned her Aunt Sophia sharply. “Go right along.”

      Flora went, and her light footstep was heard on the stairs. Very soon she returned with the blue-and-white water-pitcher and filled it carefully at the kitchen sink.

      “Now be careful and not spill it,” said Sophia as she went out of the room carrying it gingerly.

      Amanda gave a timidly curious glance at her; she wondered if she had seen the purple gown.

      Then she started, for the village stagecoach was seen driving around to the front of the house. The house stood on a corner.

      “Here, Amanda, you look better than I do; you go and meet her,” said Sophia. “I’ll just put the cake in the pan and get it in the oven and I’ll come. Show her right up to her room.”

      Amanda removed her apron hastily and obeyed. Sophia hurried with her cake, pouring it into the baking-tins. She had just put it in the oven, when the door opened and Flora entered carrying the blue water-pitcher.

      “What are you bringing down that pitcher again for?” asked Sophia.

      “She wants some water, and Aunt Amanda sent me,” replied Flora.

      Her pretty pale face had a bewildered expression.

      “For the land sake, she hasn’t used all that great pitcherful of water so quick?”

      “There wasn’t any water in it,” replied Flora.

      Her high, childish forehead was contracted slightly with a puzzled frown as she looked at her aunt.

      “Wasn’t any water in it?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “Didn’t I see you filling the pitcher with water not ten minutes ago, I want to know?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “What did you do with that water?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Did you carry that pitcherful of water up to that room and set it on the washstand?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Didn’t you spill it?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “Now, Flora Scott, I want the truth! Did you fill that pitcher with water and carry it up there, and wasn’t there any there when she came to use it?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Let me see that pitcher.” Sophia examined the pitcher. It was not only perfectly dry from top to bottom, but even a little dusty. She turned severely on the young girl. “That shows,” said she, “you did not fill the pitcher at all. You let the water run at the side because you didn’t want to carry it upstairs. I am ashamed of you. It’s bad enough to be so lazy, but when it comes to not telling the truth—”

      The young girl’s face broke up suddenly into piteous confusion, and her blue eyes became filmy with tears.

      “I did fill the pitcher, honest,” she faltered, “I did, Aunt Sophia. You ask Aunt Amanda.”

      “I’ll ask nobody. This pitcher is proof enough. Water don’t go off and leave the pitcher dusty on the inside if it was put in ten minutes ago. Now you fill that pitcher full quick, and you carry it upstairs, and if you spill a drop there’ll be something besides talk.”

      Flora filled the pitcher, with the tears falling over her cheeks. She sniveled softly as she went out, balancing it carefully against her slender hip. Sophia followed her.

      “Stop crying,” said she sharply; “you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What do you suppose Miss Louisa Stark will think. No water in her pitcher in the first place, and then you come back crying as if you didn’t want to get it.”

      In spite of herself, Sophia’s voice was soothing. She was very fond of the girl. She followed her up the stairs to the chamber where Miss Louisa Stark was waiting for the water to remove the soil of travel. She had removed