MRS. MEL MAKES A BED FOR HERSELF AND FAMILY

The last person thought of by her children at this period was Mrs. Mel:  nor had she been thinking much of them till a letter from Mr. Goren arrived one day, which caused her to pass them seriously in review.  Always an early bird, and with maxims of her own on the subject of rising and getting the worm, she was standing in a small perch in the corner of the shop, dictating accounts to Mrs. Fiske, who was copying hurriedly, that she might earn sweet intervals for gossip, when Dandy limped up and delivered the letter.  Mrs. Fiske worked hard while her aunt was occupied in reading it, for a great deal of fresh talk follows the advent of the post, and may be reckoned on.  Without looking up, however, she could tell presently that the letter had been read through.  Such being the case, and no conversation coming of it, her curiosity was violent.  Her aunt’s face, too, was an index of something extraordinary.  That inflexible woman, instead of alluding to the letter in any way, folded it up, and renewed her dictation.  It became a contest between them which should show her human nature first.  Mrs. Mel had to repress what she knew; Mrs. Fiske to control the passion for intelligence.  The close neighbourhood of one anxious to receive, and one capable of giving, waxed too much for both.

‘I think, Anne, you are stupid this morning,’ said Mrs. Mel.

‘Well, I am, aunt,’ said Mrs. Fiske, pretending not to see which was the first to unbend, ’I don’t know what it is.  The figures seem all dazzled like.  I shall really be glad when Evan comes to take his proper place.’

‘Ah!’ went Mrs. Mel, and Mrs. Fiske heard her muttering.  Then she cried out:  ‘Are Harriet and Caroline as great liars as Louisa?’

Mrs. Fiske grimaced.  ‘That would be difficult, would it not, aunt?’

’And I have been telling everybody that my son is in town learning his business, when he’s idling at a country house, and trying to play his father over again!  Upon my word, what with liars and fools, if you go to sleep a minute you have a month’s work on your back.’

‘What is it, aunt?’ Mrs. Fiske feebly inquired.

’A gentleman, I suppose!  He wouldn’t take an order if it was offered.  Upon my word, when tailors think of winning heiresses it’s time we went back to Adam and Eve.’

‘Do you mean Evan, aunt?’ interposed Mrs. Fiske, who probably did not see the turns in her aunt’s mind.

‘There—­read for yourself,’ said Mrs. Mel, and left her with the letter.