Mrs. Nichols was not too ill to talk, and forthwith she commenced a history of her malady, beginning at the time she first had it when ’Lena’s mother was a year and a day old, frequently quoting Nancy Scovandyke, and highly entertaining Nellie, who listened until warned by the sound of the carriage, as it came round to the door, that she must go.

“We are going back to Uncle Atherton’s,” said she, “but I wanted to bid you good-bye, and ask you to visit me in Frankfort with your cousins.  Will you do so?”

This was wholly unexpected to ’Lena, who, without replying, burst info tears.  Nellie hardly knew what to do.  She seldom cried herself—­she did not like to see others cry—­and still she did not blame ’Lena, for she felt that she could not help it.  At last, taking her hand, she bade her farewell, asking if she should not carry a good-bye to the others.

“Yes, to Mabel,” said ’Lena.

“And not Durward?” asked Nellie.

With something of her old spirit ’Lena answered, “No, he hates me—­Carrie says so.”

“Cad’s a fool,” muttered John Jr., while Nellie rejoined, “Durward never hated anybody, and even if he did, he would not say so—­I mean to tell him;” and with another good-bye she was gone.

On the stairs she met Durward, who was looking for her, and asked where she had been.

“To bid ’Lena good-bye; don’t you want to go too?” said Nellie.

“Why, yes, if you are sure she won’t scratch my eyes out,” he returned, gayly, following his cousin.

“I reckon I’d better tell ’Lena to come out into the hall—­she may not want you in there,” said John Jr., and hastening forward he told his cousin what was wanted.

Oh, how ’Lena longed to go, but pride, and the remembrance of Carrie’s words, prevented her, and coldly answering, “No, I don’t wish to see him,” she turned away to hide the tears and pain which those words had cost her.

This visit to Grandma Nichols’ room was productive of some good, for John Jr., did not fail of repeating to his mother the impression which he saw was made on Nellie’s mind, adding, that “though Durward did not venture in, Nellie would of course tell him all about it.  And then,” said he, “I wouldn’t give much for his opinion of your treatment of your mother.”

Angry, because she felt the truth of what her son said, Mrs. Livingstone demanded “what he’d have her do.”

“Do?” he repeated, “give grandmother a decent room, or else fix that one up, so it won’t look like the old scratch had been having a cotillon there.  Paper and paint it, and make it look decent.”