Mrs. Tree. Richards Laura Elizabeth Howe

conspicuous in any way. It was his air I meant, and the look of – of pride and joy and youth – ah! it was very beautiful. Vesta was beautiful too; you saw her travelling-dress, Aunt Marcia. Did you not think it charming?"

      "The child looked well enough," said Mrs. Tree. "Lord knows what sort of wife she'll make, with her head stuffed full of all kinds of notions, but she looks well, and she means well. I gave her my diamonds; did she tell you that?"

      Miss Vesta's smooth brow clouded. "Yes, Aunt Marcia, she told me, and showed them to me. I had not seen them for years. They are very beautiful. I – I confess – "

      "Well, what's the matter?" demanded her aunt, sharply. "You didn't want them yourself, did you?"

      "Oh! surely not, dear Aunt Marcia. I was only thinking – Maria might feel, with her two daughters, that there should have been some division – "

      "Vesta Blyth," said Mrs. Tree, slowly, "am I dead?"

      "Dear Aunt Marcia! what a singular question!"

      "Do I look as if I were going to die?"

      "Surely not! I have rarely seen you looking more robust."

      "Very well! When I am dead, you may talk to me about Maria and her two daughters; I sha'n't mind it then. What else have you got to say? I am going to take my nap soon, so if you have anything more, out with it!"

      Miss Vesta, after a hurried mental review of subjects that might be soothing, made a snatch at one.

      "Doctor Stedman came to see the children off. I think he is almost as sorry to lose Geoffrey as we are. It is a real pleasure to see him looking so well and vigorous. He really looks like a young man."

      "Don't speak to me of James Stedman!" exclaimed Mrs. Tree. "I never wish to hear his name again."

      "Aunt Marcia! dear James Stedman! Our old and valued friend!"

      "Old and valued fiddlestick! Who wanted him to come back? Why couldn't he stay where he was, and poison the foreigners? He might have been of some use there."

      Miss Vesta looked distressed.

      "Aunt Marcia," she said, gently, "I cannot feel as if I ought to let even you speak slightingly of Doctor Stedman. Of course we all feel deeply the loss of dear Geoffrey; I am sure no one can feel it more deeply than Phœbe and I do. The house is so empty without him; he kept it full of sunshine and joy. But that should not make us forgetful of Doctor Stedman's life-long devotion and – "

      "Speaking of devotion," said Mrs. Tree, "has he asked you to marry him yet? How many times does that make?"

      Miss Vesta went very pink, and rose from her seat with a gentle dignity which was her nearest approach to anger.

      "I think I will leave you now, Aunt Marcia," she said. "I will come again to-morrow, when you are more composed. Good-by."

      "Yes, run along!" said Mrs. Tree, and her voice softened a little. "I don't want you to-day, Vesta, that's the truth. Send me Phœbe, or Malvina Weight. I want something to 'chaw on,' as Direxia said just now."

      "The dogs! I was going to say," exclaimed Direxia, using one of her strongest expressions. "You never heard me, now, Mis' Tree!"

      "I never hear anything else!" said the old lady. "Go away, both of you, and let me hear myself think."

      CHAPTER II.

      MISS PHŒBE'S OPINIONS

      "I cannot see that your aunt looks a day older than she did twenty years ago," said Dr. James Stedman.

      Miss Vesta Blyth looked up in some trepidation, and the soft color came into her cheeks.

      "You have called on her, then, James," she said. "I am truly glad. How did she – that is, I am sure she was rejoiced to see you, as every one in the village is."

      Doctor Stedman chuckled, and pulled his handsome gray beard. "She may have been rejoiced," he said; "I trust she was. She said first that she hoped I had come back wiser than I went, and when I replied that I hoped I had learned a little, she said she could not abide new-fangled notions, and that if I expected to try any experiments on her I would find myself mistaken. Yes, I find her quite unchanged, and wholly delightful. What amazing vigor! I am too old for her, that's the trouble. Young Strong is far more her contemporary than I am. Why, she is as much interested in every aspect of life as any boy in the village. Before I left I had told her all that I knew, and a good deal that I didn't."

      "It is greatly to be regretted," said Miss Phœbe Blyth, pausing in an intricate part of her knitting, and looking over her glasses with mild severity, "it is greatly to be regretted that Aunt Marcia occupies herself so largely with things temporal. At her advanced age, her acute interest in – one, two, three, purl – in worldly matters, appears to me lamentable."

      "I often think, Sister Phœbe," said Miss Vesta, timidly, "that it is her interest in little things that keeps Aunt Marcia so wonderfully young."

      "My dear Vesta," replied Miss Phœbe, impressively, "at ninety-one, with eternity, if I may use the expression, sitting in the next room, the question is whether any assumption of youthfulness is desirable. For my own part, I cannot feel that it is. I said something of the sort to Aunt Marcia the other day, and she replied that she was having all the eternity she desired at that moment. The expression shocked me, I am bound to say."

      "Aunt Marcia does not always mean what she says, Sister Phœbe."

      "My dear Vesta, if she does not mean what she says at her age, the question is, when will she mean it?"

      After a majestic pause, Miss Phœbe continued, glancing at her other hearers:

      "I should be the last, the very last, to reflect upon my mother's sister in general conversation; but Doctor Stedman being our family physician as well as our lifelong friend, and Cousin Homer one of the family, I may without impropriety, I trust, dwell on a point which distresses me in our venerable relation. Aunt Marcia is – I grieve to use a harsh expression – frivolous."

      Mr. Homer Hollopeter, responding to Miss Phœbe's glance, cleared his throat and straightened his long back. He was a little gentleman, and most of what height he had was from the waist upward; his general aspect was one of waviness. His hair was long and wavy; so was his nose, and his throat, and his shirt-collar. In his youth some one had told him that he resembled Keats. This utterance, taken with the name bestowed on him by an ambitious mother with literary tastes, had colored his whole life. He was assistant in the post-office, and lived largely on the imaginary romance of the letters which passed through his hands; he also played the flute, wrote verses, and admired his cousin Phœbe.

      "I have often thought it a pity," said Mr. Homer, "that Cousin Marcia should not apply herself more to literary pursuits."

      "I don't know what you mean by literary pursuits, Homer," said Doctor Stedman, rather gruffly. "I found her the other day reading Johnson's Dictionary by candlelight, without glasses. I thought that was doing pretty well for ninety-one."

      "I – a – was thinking more about other branches of literature," Mr. Homer admitted. "The Muse, James, the Muse! Cousin Marcia takes little interest in poetry. If she could sprinkle the – a – pathway to the tomb with blossoms of poesy, it would be" – he waved his hands gently abroad – "smoother; less rough; more devoid of irregularities."

      "Cousin Homer, could you find it convenient not to rock?" asked Miss Phœbe, with stately courtesy.

      "Certainly, Cousin Phœbe. I beg your pardon."

      It was one of Miss Phœbe's crosses that Mr. Homer would always sit in this particular chair, and would rock; the more so that when not engaged in conversation he was apt to open and shut his mouth in unison with the motion of the rockers. Miss Phœbe disapproved of rocking-chairs, and would gladly have banished this one, had it not belonged to her mother.

      "I have occasionally offered to read to Cousin Marcia," Mr. Homer continued, "from the works of Keats and – other bards; but she has uniformly received the suggestion in a spirit of – mockery; of – derision; of – contumely. The last time I mentioned it, she exclaimed 'Cat's foot!' The expression struck me, I confess, as – strange;