dining-room after our supper till bedtime, because father rarely came from Milford, where he went on bank days, and indeed almost every other day, till late, and she liked to be by him while he ate his supper and smoked a cigar.  All except Veronica frequented this room; but she was not missed or inquired for.  She liked the parlor, because the piano was there.  As soon as father had bought it she astonished us by a persistent fingering of the keys, which produced a feeble melody.  She soon played all the airs she had heard.  When I saw what she could do, I refused to take music lessons, for while I was trying to learn “The White Cockade,” she pushed me away, played it, and made variations upon it.  I pounded the keys with my fist, by way of a farewell, and told her she should have the piano for her own.

CHAPTER VI.

One winter morning before daylight, Veronica came to my room, and asked me if I had heard any walking about the house during the night.  She had, and was going to inquire about it.  She soon returned with, “You have a brother.  Temperance says my nose is broken.  He will be like you, I suppose, and have everything he asks for.  I don’t care for him; but,” crying out with passion, “get up.  Mother wants to see you, I know.”

I dressed quickly, and went downstairs with a feeling of indignation that such an event should have happened without my knowledge.

There was an unwonted hush.  A bright fire was burning on the dining-room hearth, the lamps were still lighted, and father was by the fire, smoking in a meditative manner.  He put out his hand, which I did not take, and said, “Do you like his name—­Arthur?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, as I passed him, and went to the kitchen, where Hepsey and Temperance were superintending the steeping of certain aromatic herbs, which stood round the fire in silver porringers and earthen pitchers.

“Another Morgeson’s come,” said Temperance.  “There’s enough of them, such as they are—­not but what they are good enough,” correcting herself hastily.

“Go into your mother’s room, softly,” said Hepsey, rubbing her fingers against her thumb—­her habit when she was in a tranquil frame of mind.

“You are mighty glad, Hepsey,” said Temperance.

“Locke Morgeson ought to have a son,” she replied, “to leave his money to.”

“I vow,” answered Temperance, “girls are thought nothing of in this ’ligous section; they may go to the poor house, as long as the sons have plenty.”

An uncommon fit or shyness seized me, mixed with a feeling of dread, as I crept into the room where mother was.  My eyes first fell upon an elderly woman, who wore a long, wide, black apron, whose strings girded the middle of her cushion-like form.  She was taking snuff.  It was the widow Mehitable Allen, a lady whom I had often seen in other houses on similar occasions.