its dainty tucks and expensive embroidery, and her thoughts at once leaping forward to ironing day, with the wonder who was to do up such finery.  “Of course, though, she’ll see to such things herself,” was her mental conclusion, and then she proceeded to question Ethelyn as to what was the matter, and where she felt the worst.  A person who did not come down to breakfast must either be sick or very babyish and notional, and as Ethelyn did not pretend to much indisposition, the good woman naturally concluded that she was “hypoey,” and pitied her boy accordingly.

Ethelyn readily guessed the opinion her mother-in-law was forming of her, and could hardly steady her voice sufficiently to answer her questions or repress her tears, which gushed forth the moment Mrs. Markham had left the room, and she was alone with Richard.  Poor Richard! it was a novel position in which he found himself—­that of mediator between his mother and his wife; but he succeeded very well, soothing and caressing the latter, until when, at three o’clock in the afternoon, the bountiful dinner was ready, he had the pleasure of taking her downstairs, looking very beautiful in her handsome black silk, and the pink coral ornaments Aunt Barbara had given her.  There was nothing gaudy about her dress; it was in perfect taste, and very plain too, as she thought, even if it was trimmed with lace and bugles.  But she could not help feeling it was out of keeping when James, and John, and Eunice stared so at her, and Mrs. Markham asked her if she hadn’t better tie on an apron for fear she might get grease or something on her.  With ready alacrity Eunice, who fancied her young mistress looked like a queen, forgetting in her admiration that she had ever thought her proud, ran for her own clean, white apron, which she offered to the lady.

But Ethelyn declined it, saying, “My napkin is all that I shall require.”

Mrs. Markham, and Eunice, and Andy glanced at each other.  Napkins were a luxury in which Mrs. Markham had never indulged.  She knew they were common in almost every family of her acquaintance; but she did not see of what use they were, except to make more washing, and as her standard of things was the standard of thirty years back she was not easily convinced; and even Melinda Jones had failed on the napkin question.  Ethelyn had been too much excited to observe their absence the previous night, and she now spoke in all sincerity, never dreaming that there was not such an article in the house.  But there was a small square towel of the finest linen, and sacred to the memory of Daisy, who had hemmed it herself and worked her name in the corner.  It was lying in the drawer, now, with her white cambric dress, and, at a whispered word from her mistress, Eunice brought it out and laid it in Ethelyn’s lap, while Richard’s face grew crimson as he began to think that possibly his mother might be a very little behind the times in her household arrangements.