Mr. Bradshaw was obliged to leave town for a week or two on business connected with the great land-claim.  On his return, feeling in pretty good spirits, as the prospects looked favorable, he went to make a call at The Poplars.  He asked first for Miss Hazard.

“Bliss your soul, Mr. Bridshaw,” answered Mistress Kitty Fagan, “she’s been gahn nigh a wake.  It’s to the city, to the big school, they’ve sint her.”

This announcement seemed to make a deep impression on Murray Bradshaw, for his feelings found utterance in one of the most energetic forms of language to which ears polite or impolite are accustomed.  He next asked for Miss Silence, who soon presented herself.  Mr. Bradshaw asked, in a rather excited way, “Is it possible, Miss Withers, that your niece has quitted you to go to a city school?”

Miss Silence answered, with her chief—­mourner expression, and her death-chamber tone:  “Yes, she has left us for a season.  I trust it may not be her destruction.  I had hoped in former years that she would become a missionary, but I have given up all expectation of that now.  Two whole years, from the age of four to that of six, I had prevailed upon her to give up sugar,—­the money so saved to go to a graduate of our institution—­who was afterwards——­he labored among the cannibal-islanders.  I thought she seemed to take pleasure in this small act of self-denial, but I have since suspected that Kitty gave her secret lumps.  It was by Mr. Gridley’s advice that she went, and by his pecuniary assistance.  What could I do?  She was bent on going, and I was afraid she would have fits, or do something dreadful, if I did not let her have her way.  I am afraid she will come back to us spoiled.  She has seemed so fond of dress lately, and once she spoke of learning—­yes, Mr. Bradshaw, of learning to—­dance!  I wept when I heard of it.  Yes, I wept.”

That was such a tremendous thing to think of, and especially to speak of in Mr. Bradshaw’s presence, for the most pathetic image in the world to many women is that of themselves in tears,—­that it brought a return of the same overflow, which served as a substitute for conversation until Miss Badlam entered the apartment.

Miss Cynthia followed the same general course of remark.  They could not help Myrtle’s going if they tried.  She had always maintained that, if they had only once broke her will when she was little, they would have kept the upper hand of her; but her will never was broke.  They came pretty near it once, but the child would n’t give in.

Miss Cynthia went to the door with Mr. Bradshaw, and the conversation immediately became short and informal.

“Demonish pretty business!  All up for a year or more,—­hey?”

Don’t blame me,—­I couldn’t stop her.”

“Give me her address,—­I ’ll write to her.  Any young men teach in the school?”

“Can’t tell you.  She’ll write to Olive and Bathsheba, and I’ll find out all about it.”