s handiest. Lucinda (who was used to it)
lived under a figurative rain of cinders, and thrived salamander-like in
their midst; but Arethusa--who had come up for a week--found herself totally
unable to stand the endless lava and boiling ashes, and fled back to the
bosom of Mr. Arethusa the third morning after her arrival.

"I've got to go, I find," she had yelled the night before her departure.

"I certainly wish you would," replied her aunt. "I'm a great believer in
married women paying attention at home before they begin to pry into their
neighbors' affairs. It's a good idea. Most generally--most always."

This was bitterly unkind, since Arethusa was in the habit of taking the
long journey purely out of a sense of duty and to keep Lucinda up to the
mark; but grateful appreciation is rarely ever a salient point in the
character of an autocrat.

"I'm glad she's gone," Aunt Mary told Lucinda, when they were left
together once more. "She puts me beyond all patience. She chatters
gibberish that I can't make out a word of for an hour at a time, and then,
all of a sudden, she screams, 'Dinner's ready,' or something equally
silly, in a voice like a carvin' knife. It's enough to drive a sane person
stark, raving mad. It is."

Lucinda acquiesced with a nod. Lucinda herself was glad that Arethusa had
gone. She resented the manner in which the latter always looked over the
preserve closet and counted the silver. Nothing was ever missing, because
Lucinda was as honest as a day twenty-five hours long, but the more honest
those of Lucinda's caliber are, the more mad they get if they feel that
they are being watched. So Lucinda acquiesced with a nod.

The mistress and maid were sitting alone together, with the June rain
falling without, and it was that pleasantly exciting hour which comes only
in the country and is known as "about mail-time."

"There's Joshua now," Aunt Mary exclaimed, presently, "I see him turnin'
in the gate. He'll be at the door before you get there, Lucinda,--he will.
There, he's twistin' his wheel off. He's tryin' to hold Billy an' hold the
letters an' whistle, all at once. Why don't you go to him, Lucinda? Can't
you hear a whistle that I can see? Or, if you can't hear the whistle,
can't you hear me? Do you think whoever wrote those letters would be much
pleased if they could see you so slow about gettin' them? Do--"

Just here the old lady, turning toward Lucinda, perceived that she had
been gone--Heaven