the newer woman who grasped successfully the right to live, was as her elder sister who had petitioned merely for the privilege to love.  The modern heroine could still charm even after she had ceased to desire to.  Neither in the new fiction nor in the old was there a place for the unhappy woman who desired to charm but could not; she remained what she had always been—­a tragic perversion of nature which romance and realism conspired to ignore.  Women in novels had revolted against life as passionately as she—­but one and all they had revolted in graceful attitudes and with abundant braids of hair.  A false front not only extinguished sentiment—­it put an end to rebellion.

“Miss Kesiah, dar’s Marse Reuben in de hall en he sez he’d be moughty glad ef’n you’d step down en speak a wud wid ’im.”

“In a moment, Abednego.  I must take off my things.”

Withdrawing the short jet-headed pins from her bonnet with a hurried movement, she stabbed them into the hard round pincushion on her bureau, and after throwing a knitted cape over her shoulders, went down the wide staircase to where Reuben awaited her in the hall.  As she walked she groped slightly and peered ahead of her with her nervous, short-sighted gaze.

At the foot of the staircase, the old man was standing in a patient attitude, resting upon his wooden leg, which was slightly in advance of his sound one.  His fine bearded face might have been the face of a scholar, except for its roughened skin and the wistful, dog-like look in the eyes.

In response to Kesiah’s greeting, he explained that he had come at once to acknowledge the gift of the overcoat and to “pay his respects.”

“I am glad you like it,” she answered, and because her heart was swelling with kindness, she stammered and grew confused while the anxious frown deepened between her eyebrows.  A morbid horror of making herself ridiculous prevented her always from making herself understood.

“It will be very useful to me, ma’am, when I am out of doors in bad weather,” he replied, wondering if he had offended her by his visit.

“We got it for that purpose,” and becoming more embarrassed, she added hastily, “How is the red cow, Mr. Merryweather?”

“She mends slowly, ma’am.  I am givin’ her bran mash twice a day and keepin’ her in the barn.  Have you noticed the hogs?  They’re a fine lot this year and we’ll get some good hams at the killin’.”

“No, I hadn’t looked at them, but I’ve been struck with the corn you’ve brought up recently from the low grounds.”

For a minute or two they discussed the crops, both painfully ill at ease and uncertain whether to keep up the conversation or to let it trail off into silence.  Then at the first laboured pause, Reuben repeated his message to Mrs. Gay and stamped slowly out of the back door into the arms of Jonathan, who was about to enter.

“Halloo!  So it’s you!” exclaimed the young man in the genial tone which seemed at once to dispel Kesiah’s embarrassment.  “I’ve wanted to talk with you for two days, but I shan’t detain you now for I happen to know that your granddaughter is hunting for you already.  I’ll come up to-morrow and chat awhile in the barn.”