“Why, what’s that for?” was the next question; “don’t they agree?”

“Oh, yes, perfectly; but the young people want a little home of their own, ‘a play house,’ the elder Mrs. Garnet calls it.  For my part, I think it only natural.  Mr. Swan and I did not want to stay with either of the old folks after we were married, but came off and set up for ourselves.”

“That’s the house that Mrs. Newcomer lived in, ain’t it?” asked Betsey Pryor.

“The very identical one,” replied Mrs. Wynn.  “I am glad that woman has left, for it was a living disgrace to any respectable community, harboring such a character.”

“But nobody ever dreamed anything of her true history.  If they, had they wouldn’t have associated with her,” said Mrs. Swan.  “She was a dreadful creature, and I can’t make out yet why she should take all that pains to come here and persecute two unoffending women like Mrs. Hardyng and her young friend.”

“But don’t you see,” reiterated Mrs. Wynn, “it was at the instigation of Mr. Westbourne, Mrs. Hardyng’s former husband, and probably she wanted to gratify her own malice.  I can understand her motive, for no doubt she cordially hated this woman, whom she felt she had wronged.”

“But Miss Graystone?” queried Mrs. Swan.  “I should think her sweet, patient face would have touched the heart of a stone.”

“It seems she did have some compunctions,” said the old lady; “don’t you remember there at the last meeting of the Society, she said she would have taken the girl’s part, only she thought she could hurt the widow still more by wounding this young girl?  Betsey can tell you better about that, though,” she added, wickedly; “ask the former Secretary to give you the particulars.  I had not the honor of being present on that occasion myself.”

“Don’t ask me to rehearse it,” said Miss Pryor, in subdued tones, “I can’t bear it.  My nerves have never yet recovered from the shock.”

“We will excuse you, then, Betsey,” said the other, magnanimously, “and proceed to the more congenial occupation of disposing of some of these nice biscuits and delicious tea that I see Mrs. Swan has prepared for us.”

The pensive beauty of the mild Indian Summer flooded hill and valley now.  Where the sombre shades of green had erst clothed the forest, brilliant pennons of flame-colored, and crimson-dyed, and paler tints, shading into amber, and gray, and russet brown, lit up the woods with their bright-hued splendor.

Clemence, with her little charge, loved to wander through these places, that nature had clothed in rarest beauty for her worshippers.  This was her favorite season of the year.  Sometimes a foreboding oppressed this young dreamer that it might be her last hours of earthly enjoyment.  She used often to look with pity into the child’s face, where a sweet seriousness lingered, and it gave her sympathetic heart pain to think that the child should be old beyond