Ester’s cheeks glowed yet more.  She understood Dr. Van Anden, and she knew her face did not look very self-controlled.  No one knows what prompted Minnie to speak just then.

“Aunt Sadie said Auntie Essie was cross.  Were you, Auntie Essie?”

The household laughed, and Sadie came to the rescue.

“Why, Minnie! you must not tell what Aunt Sadie says.  It is just as sure to be nonsense as it is that you are a chatter-box.”

Ester thought that they would never all finish their supper and depart; but the latest comer strolled away at last, and she hurried to toast a slice of bread, make a fresh cup of tea, and send Julia after Mrs. Ried.

Sadie hovered around the pale, sad-faced woman while she ate.

“Are you truly better, mother?  I’ve been worried half to pieces about you all day.”

“O, yes; I’m better.  Ester, you look dreadfully tired.  Have you much more to do?”

“Only to trim the lamps, and make three beds that I had not time for this morning, and get things ready for breakfast, and finish Sadie’s dress.”

“Can’t Maggie do any of these things?”

“Maggie is ironing.”

Mrs. Ried sighed.  “It is a good thing that I don’t have the sick headache very often,” she said sadly; “or you would soon wear yourself out.  Sadie, are you going to the lyceum tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Your worthy daughter has the honor of being editress, you know, to-night.  Ester, can’t you go down?  Never mind that dress; let it go to Guinea.”

“You wouldn’t think so by to-morrow evening,” Ester said, shortly.  “No, I can’t go.”

The work was all done at last, and Ester betook herself to her room.  How tired she was!  Every nerve seemed to quiver with weariness.

It was a pleasant little room, this one which she entered, with its low windows looking out toward the river, and its cosy furniture all neatly arranged by Sadie’s tasteful fingers.

Ester seated herself by the open window, and looked down on the group who lingered on the piazza below—­looked down on them with her eyes and with her heart; yet envied while she looked, envied their free and easy life, without a care to harass them, so she thought; envied Sadie her daily attendance at the academy, a matter which she so early in life had been obliged to have done with; envied Mrs. Holland the very ribbons and laces which fluttered in the evening air.  It had grown cooler now, a strong breeze blew up from the river and freshened the air; and, as they sat below there enjoying it, the sound of their gay voices came up to her.

“What do they know about heat, or care, or trouble?” she said scornfully, thinking over all the weight of her eighteen years of life; she hated it, this life of hers, just hated it—­the sweeping, dusting, making beds, trimming lamps, working from morning till night; no time for reading, or study, or pleasure.  Sadie had said she was cross, and Sadie had told the truth; she was cross most of the time, fretted with her every-day petty cares and fatigues.