“Why, Fanny!” said mother.

The hall door opened.  “Here she is,” muttered this Fanny.

“Veronica!”

“Cassandra!”

We grasped hands, and stared mutely at each other.  I felt a contraction in the region of my heart, as if a cord of steel were binding it.  She, at least, was glad that I was alive!

“They look something alike now,” Hepsey remarked.

“Not at all,” said Veronica, dropping my hand, and retreating.

“Why, Arthur dear, come here!”

He clambered into my lap.

“Were you killed, my dear sister?”

“Not quite, little boy.”

“Well; do you know that I am a veteran officer, and smoke my pipe, lots?”

“You must rest, Cassy,” said mother.  “Don’t go upstairs, though, till you have had your supper.  Hurry it up, Temperance.”

“It will be on the table in less than no time, Miss Morgeson,” she answered, “provided Miss Fanny is agreeable about taking in the teapot.”

I had a comfortable sense of property, when I took possession of my own room.  It was better, after all, to live with a father and mother, who would adopt my ideas.  Even the sea might be mine.  I asked father the next morning, at breakfast, how far out at sea his property extended.

“I trust, Cassandra, you will now stay at home,” said mother; “I am tired of table duty; you must pour the coffee and tea, for I wish to sit beside your father.”

“You and Aunt Merce have settled down into a venerable condition.  You wear caps, too!  What a stage forward!”

“The cap is not ugly, like Aunt Merce’s; I made it,” Veronica called, sipping from a great glass.

“Gothic pattern, isn’t it?” father asked, “with a tower, and a bridge at the back of the neck?”

“This hash is Fanny’s work, mother,” said Verry.

“So I perceive.”

“Hepsey is not at the table,” I said.

“It is her idea not to come, since I have taken Fanny.  Did you notice her?  She prefers to have her wait.”

“Who is Fanny?”

“Her father is old Ichabod Bowles, who lives on the Neck.  Last winter her mother sent for me, and begged me to take her.  I could not refuse, for she was dying of consumption; so I promised.  The poor woman died, in the bitterest weather, and a few days after Ichabod brought Fanny here, and told me he had done with womankind forever.  Fanny was sulky and silent for a long time.  I thought she never would get warm.  If obliged to leave the fire, she sat against the wall, with her face hid in her arms.  Veronica has made some impression on her; but she is not a good girl.”

“She will be, mother.  I am better than I was.”

“Never; her disposition is hateful.  She is angry with those who are better off than herself.  I have not seen a spark of gratitude in her.”

“I never thought of gratitude,” said Verry, “it is true; but why must people be grateful?”