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“THERE is no money in this letter, after all,” said Mrs.
Howard as she laid down one that had just come from
my father.

“How does that happen, I wonder,” said Kate.

“O the old way—poor people cannot be paid until rich
people think it convenient.”

“Did you want it particularly just now?” said Kate, in a
sort of abstracted aside from the letter.

“I wished very much to give Mrs. Barrington some,
and we want tea and sugar, and Grace wants a pair of
shoes.”

“Never mind mamma, I'll mend these.”

“Are we quite out of tea?”

“No, there's a little left, and we have plenty of coffee—
the rest of the sugar had better be kept for that.”

“We shall have to go back to our old economy in the
sweet line,” said Kate. “I think he is very tired of being
away from home, mamma.”

“No,” said Mrs. Howard answering the last words with
a sigh, “I have no intention of going back to that sort of
economy,—I have grown wiser. Instead of struggling to
live along by such shifts in the hope that things will mend,
the way is to set to and mend them.”

“I am sure you have done your part, mamma. But can't
we `live along' till the next letter comes?”

“The only thing I care about,” said my stepmother, “is
our board,—I cannot bear to be behindhand with that.

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And you see your father will not be home so soon as he
expected.”

“But Mrs. Barrington will wait, mamma—it won't make
much difference to them,—it can't, for we cost them very
little; and the money will be just as good when it comes.
I thought there was some left of the last supply?”

“A few dollars,—but I don't quite like to leave ourselves
without any. Perhaps I had better give her that.”—

We had been talking while the breakfast-table was clearing
away,—making a long enough pause in the important
places for our little handmaid to load her tray and walk off
with it. The table-cloth had hardly disappeared before
Mrs. Barrington came hurrying in, quite out of breath with
her own eagerness.

“'Dency is so hateful!” she said,—“she won't never shut
the doors!”

We looked up in some surprise, but Mrs. Barrington's
face was the very picture of smiling good-humour. It was
only a Pickwickian hateful.

“I didn't know they were open,” said my stepmother.

“They wasn't all—only the kitchen door; but he takes
on so about grandmother's pipe,—he says if ever a thing
went every place it was t'bacca.”

“It very seldom comes here,” said Kate.

“Grandmother kint do without her pipe, neither,” pursued
Mrs. Barrington. “I'll fetch some yarn the first time
I go to Wiamee—she don't smoke not nigh so much when
she has knittin' work. Why Mrs. Howard, when she ain't
got nothin else to do, she'll smoke three sixpenny papers—
that's eighteen-pence worth in a week! And I do try to keep
the doors shut, but the children has no mind to anything.”

My stepmother assured her that the pipe gave us no
annoyance; and then according to her former intention she
offered Mrs. Barrington part payment of what was owing
her. If it had been labelled as the last we had, Mrs. Bar
rington could not have refused it more decidedly.

“I ain't got no use for it now,” she said putting her
hands behind her, “and I couldn't do no less than spend it.
By and by, when it draws on to winter, I'll likely want to
get some things for the children.”

“But you may as well take it now,” said my stepmother,

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“and then you'll have it when you want it—maybe I
shouldn't, just at the right time.”

“It won't make no odds then,” said Mrs. Barrington,—
“if I was to take it now Mrs. Howard, I couldn't keep it.
Ezra says dollars never stood still on top o' sich a hill, and
he don't know where to find 'em when they get to the
bottom, he says, nor h'ain't got nothin' to show for 'em
neither. And he couldn't keep 'em, no more. My husband
says he knows I make holes in his pockets instead of mending
'em, for he finds more every day, he says, and I tell him
it's him makes and I mend.”

“I think you could manage to keep it,” said Mrs. Howard
smiling, “and I would much rather you should.”

“Yes ma'am,” said Mrs. Barrington, in assent to my
stepmother's intentions but not at all to her request. “But
my! there's no tellin'!—it beats all how money goes.
There's little Benny asked his father yesterday to give
him a sixpen', and he didn't have one as it fell out, however
he giv him a fivepen'. And Benny he went off to school,
and he giv his fivepen' for five apples to one of the play
boys. Simple child! His father said if he ever knowed
him to do sich a heedless act again, he didn't know but he
should whip him.”

A startling rap at the door interrupted the conversation.

“Well of all things!” exclaimed Mrs. Barrington; and
she hastily ran out shutting our door behind her. The thin
boards kept out sight but not sound.

“Good morning,” said a familiar voice. “Where's the
antecedent to the masculine pronoun Mrs. Barrington?”

“Sir?” was the reply.

“I say where is he?”

“O—” said Mrs. Barrington, who knew a pronoun when
she heard it—“my! he ain't to home Mr. Carvill.”

“And in which of the forty-nine agricultural departments
shall I find him?”

“No sir,” repeated Mrs. Barrington. “He's away to
mill with a load o' wheat.”

“Confound the wheat!” said Mr. Carvill. “When will
he be back?”

“I don't know sir, it can't be long,—he didn't hardly get
his breakfast afore he started, and he's only went to mill,

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and then to Squire Brown's to tell him about the hay, and
then to Wiamee for the ox-chain.”

“And everywhere else afterwards, I suppose.”

“He said he calculated to plough this afternoon,” said
Mrs. Barrington, as if that held out some slight hope of
Ezra's coming home before night.

“I calculate he won't,” said Mr. Carvill. “Well—I may
as well wait awhile. I suppose I can go in here as usual.”

“Stop sir, if you please!” exclaimed Mrs. Barrington as
Mr. Carvill's impatient foot crossed the passage.

“I'm going to stop, till Mr. Barrington comes. What's
the matter? is the room whitewashing or are all the children
asleep in it? I won't wake them up—it will do well
enough—I want nothing but a chair.”

If Mr. Carvill had never been surprised before, he was
when he had thus ushered himself into our sitting-room.
Astonishment or extraordinary self-command suppressed
even his usual tokens of feeling, and he stood not only motionless
but silent; while Mrs. Barrington's distressed face
in the passage, touched off the scene so that we were very
near bursting into a laugh.

My stepmother was the first to speak.

“Here is a chair Mr. Carvill,” she said,—“if that is all
you want we can supply you.”

“Hard to tell what a man wants when he's got too
much,” said Mr. Carvill abstractedly, as he bowed in answer,
while Mrs. Barrington quietly closed the door.

“I hope I need not assure you Mrs. Howard, that the
idea of ladies being so tired at the foot of this hill that they
had to come up to rest, never entered my head.” And
then crossing the room to where we sat, he said,

“Young ladies, I have had an apology in my pocket for
the last six months directed to you. I hope the original
lustre is not so dimmed that you will refuse to receive it?”

“I hope not sir,” said Kate quietly.

“Well you shall judge,” said Mr. Carvill, “for here it
is. As first,

I was provoked—

secondly, in a passion.

thirdly, impolite,

fourthly, penitent.

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Now will you and Miss Grace give me a receipt in full?
Or if either lady felt herself particularly aggrieved—perhaps—
I believe that might be so—I will with pleasure give
my apology a special direction. How does the case stand
Miss Howard?”

“You know Mr. Carvill,” said Kate, colouring a little
but still speaking with the same quiet steadiness, “the
essence of an offence lies in the intention. No one can
answer such a question but yourself.”

“Never answer questions—to myself nor other people,”
said Mr. Carvill looking not at all displeased. “Am I to
have a receipt for this `essence'?—whatever it was.”

“Certainly!” said Kate smiling, “though one of your
items is a little indistinct, Mr. Carvill,—but for your good
decyphering we should have been puzzled.”

“Shake hands then,” he said with one of his peculiar
looks which rather indicated than expressed a smile, “and
that will deepen the impression. And now I will correct
my last mistake as far as possible, by bidding you mille
fois adieu!”

“Our chairs are quite at your service, Mr. Carvill,” said
my stepmother,—“if you wish to wait for any one you had
better sit down. I think Mrs. Barrington has given up all
her spare rooms to us.”

“Rooms!” he said.

“Yes,” said my stepmother, “we are living here this
summer, for safe keeping during Mr. Howard's absence.”

“Living here!—on top of Jack's bean!”

“No,” said I laughing, “we are not at the top yet, only
`as high as the house.'”

“There is nothing left for me but Mrs. Barrington's
`well of all things!'” said Mr. Carvill. “Absolutely
quitted the Moon for the stars!”

“I hope Mrs. Carvill is well?” said my stepmother.

“I hope so too ma'am, but at present I am living in a
state of single blessedness; and the two days which have
rolled over my head since I left Mrs. Carvill, have not sufficiently
aroused her anxiety to make her write to me. Of
course the only relief to my mind lies in the contemplation
of the telegraph wires. Au revoir! I see Jack has
come.”

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Whether Mr. Carvill thought his character as a gentleman
had been somewhat jeoparded, or whether the small
portion of Collingwood in him was touched by our reverses,
he certainly seemed to desire friendly terms; and a few
days after his involuntary visit he sent us a brace of ducks,
one of which wore round its leg this label:

“A continuation of the last item.”

Ezra Barrington delivered them without a word; but
upon my stepmother's charging him with her thanks, he
gave one of his uncompromising grunts, and remarked
that “'twa'n't a millenium if folks did once in a while have
common sense,—the only wonder was they didn't get it
oftener.”

“You will not forget my message?” said Mrs. Howard.

“Well—” said Ezra, “I do' know as I kin,—it's stowed
away in my back settlements—safe enough I guess. The
thing is whether I kin ever get it out!”

The loveliest of September weather had set in,—bright,
fresh days, and cool nights that very soon touched up our
forest-trees. Down in the valley the trees yet laughed at
it, except now and then a sensitive butternut whose “yellow
leaf” came upon small provocation; but on the higher
ground the fall colours began to come out beautifully. It
was as if Autumn took her stand upon the hills and there
unfurled her banners as a signal for all nature to bow subjection.
Now might be seen a cluster of maples assuming the
royal colours at first in a mere cockade or favour,—one
branch stretching out over the road its crimson leaves,
while the rest of the tree remained unchanged. Then a
group of loyal oaks came out in the darkest red, from the
top leaf to the lowest branch that held consultation with
the maples. The white oaks chose to appear in orange,
and the hickories in bright yellow—as if liberty poles
were worth gilding; while all the militia—sumachs and
brambles and cornus and buck-thorns came hurrying in,
wearing what uniforms they could pick up—green spotted
with red or striped with black, or leaves that were indeed
of one colour, but so deficient in leafets that it reminded
one of,

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The evergreens stood out in stout rebellion; only the
arbor-vitæ assumed a sprinkling of brown leaves for a
time—and then dropped them. But how fast the other
trees came in! after the example of a few leaders, and the
persuasion of a sharp frost or two. The season was unusually
cold,—summer had ended with the name of it, and the
fall days were not idle. We began to think it high time
for us to be at home and established for the winter. Still
my father came not; and as he was staying away for the
means to stay at home, we were forced to be content. Our
letters were an interchange of patience and quiet waiting,
though we were not less weary of the separation than Mr.
Howard, and though summer dresses were in strong need
of successors.

We had taken a little money and a long walk one day
to try what the Wiamee stores could furnish, and were returning
under the full conviction that an empty purse never
found much anywhere, when the distance was suddenly occupied
by a great cloud of dust. Of course we turned out
for the carriage!—but the carriage was neighbourly and
stopped.

“How d' do?” said Mrs. Egerton's hat and feathers, (the
wind blew away the most of her voice,) “been walking?—
going home?”

We made answer by a comprehensive yes.

“Well get in here and I'll take you home. Stephen! let
down the steps.”

The footman obeyed, and a scornful little bronze boot
drew itself away from the open coach-door. The silk dress
to match was taken equal care of.

“Come!” said the lady,—“jump in!”

But having caught sight of at least two Miss Willets in
the carriage, Mrs. Howard declined.

“There's plenty of room,” said Mrs. Egerton—“we
can sit close you know—Cary and Amelia will take Kate
between them, and—O Michael take care of those horses!
Eh!”

The silk dress received another little expressive twitch,
and the horses danced.

“Thank you Mrs. Egerton,” said my stepmother with
hard-won gravity,—“we had rather walk.”

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“Well I must have one of you. Come Grace—I shall be
very much hurt if you don't.”

And Mrs. Howard and Kate fairly put me in—not because
I was wanted but because I was tired.

For a few minutes the Miss Willets found full occupation
in surveying me, whom they had hardly seen since I
was a child. During Mrs. Willet's first summers at the
Moon, they had been at boarding-school. From appearances
I judged that they had never seen a calico dress, nor a
tartan shawl, nor probably a straw bonnet in October; but
comforting myself with the proverb “that dress is best
which best fits me,” I leaned back in the carriage in a very
equable state of mind.

“Then you won't go to Greenleaf's Aunt Egerton!—”
exclaimed Miss Amelia suddenly. “How provoking!”

“Why yes my dear—I think we can. Are you in any
hurry to get home Grace?”

Miss Willet looked as if the question were a conventional
absurdity, and I answered,

“No ma'am.”

And felt that I wished Greenleaf's were at the distance
of just half the daylight that remained of that first of
October.

“Pull the string my dear,” said Mrs. Egerton, “and
give your orders,—he knows where the place is.”

The place was a little nest of hot-houses in “a most
chosen plot of fertile land”; with a fair south-eastern exposure,
and sheltering high ground and evergreens towards
the cold regions. I had been there years before, when we
first came to Glen Luna, but I now went under new auspices.
I was desired to get out of the carriage, and then I
walked quietly in after the two Miss Willets who fluttered
after their aunt as close as possible. Once in, I could spare
their attentions and bestow mine upon the flowers; but
Mrs. Egerton needed me.

“My dear Grace, I am going into this little office to
speak to Mr. Greenleaf about my garden. Will you come
with me? I never like to go anywhere alone.”

The head man sat in his office writing letters.

“I am afraid we interrupt you sir,” said Mrs. Egerton
politely, and taking a chair.

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