“Dear, dear, you don’t say so,” answered Mrs. Meadowsweet.  “Bee, my love, we must have those nice girls constantly to the Gray House, and feed them up all we can.  I’m very sorry to hear your news, Jessie.  But I’m afraid we can’t wait to talk any longer now.  Nothing could have been more affable than Mrs. Bertram’s letter, sent down by special messenger, and written in a most stylish hand.”

“You haven’t got it in your pocket, I suppose?” asked Mrs. Morris.

“To be sure I have.  You’d like to see it; well, here it is.  You can let me have it back to-morrow.  Now, good-bye.  Drive on, Davis.”

The cab jumbled and rattled over the paving stones, and Mrs. Meadowsweet lay back against the cushions, and fanned her hot face.

“I wonder if it’s true about those poor girls being so badly fed,” she inquired of her daughter.  “Dear, dear, and there’s nothing young things want like generous living.  Well, it’s grievous.  When I think of the quarts of milk I used to put into you, Bee, and the pounds and pounds of the best beef jelly—­jelly that you could fling over the house, for thickness and solidity, and the fowls I had boiled down for you after the measles—­who’s that coming down the street, Bee?  Look, my love, I’m a bit short-sighted.  Oh, it’s Miss Peters, of course.  How are you, Miss Peters?  Hot day, isn’t it?  Bee and I are off to the Manor—­special invitation—­letter—­I lent it to Mrs. Morris.  Oh, yes, to dinner.  I have my best cap in this band-box.  What do you say?  You’ll look in to-morrow—­glad to see you.  Drive on, Davis.”

“Really, mother, if you stop to speak to every one we won’t get to the Manor to-night,” gently expostulated Beatrice.

“Well, well, my love, but we don’t go to see the Bertrams every day, and when one feels more pleased and gratified than ordinary, it’s nice to get the sympathy of one’s neighbors.  I do think the people at Northbury are very sympathetic, don’t you, Bee?”

“Yes, mother, I think they are,” responded the daughter.

“And she took care not to tell her parent of any little lurking doubts which might come to her now and then with regard to the sincerity of those kind neighbors, who so often partook of the hospitality of the Gray House.”

When they reached the lodge, old Mrs. Tester came out to open the gates.  She nodded and smiled to Beatrice who had often been very kind to her, and Mrs. Meadowsweet bent forward in the cab to ask very particularly about the old woman’s rheumatism.  It was at that moment that Beatrice caught sight of a face framed in with jasmine and Virginia creeper, which looked at her from out of an upper casement window in Mrs. Tester’s little lodge.  The face with its half-tamed expression, the eager scrutiny in the eyes, which were almost too bold in their brightness, startled Beatrice and gave her a sense of uneasiness.  The face came like a flash to the window and then disappeared, and at that same moment Davis started the cab forward with a jerk.  It was to the credit of both Davis and his sorry-looking steed that they should make a good show in the avenue.  For this they had been reserving themselves, and they went along now in such a heedless and almost frantic style that Mrs. Meadowsweet had her bonnet knocked awry, and the band-box which contained the precious cap absolutely dashed to the floor of the cab.