don't think my shawl looks genteel enough to wear,"
Mrs. Zelotes said to Fanny; "but she's dreadful silly."

They drove through the main street of the city and passed Cynthia
Lennox's house. Ellen looked at it with the guilt of secrecy. She
thought she saw the lady's head at a front window, and the front
door opened and Cynthia came down the walk with a rich sweep of
black draperies, and the soft sable toss of plumes. "There's Cynthia
Lennox," said Fanny. "She's a handsome-lookin' woman, ain't she?"

"She's most as old as Andrew, but you'd never suspect it," said Mrs.
Zelotes. She had used to have a fancy that Andrew and Cynthia might
make a match. She had seen no reason to the contrary, and she always
looked at Cynthia with a curious sense of injury and resentment when
she thought of what might have been.

As Cynthia Lennox swept down the walk to-day, the old lady said,
sharply:

"I don't see why she should walk any prouder than anybody else. I
don't know why she should, if she's right-minded. The Lennoxes
wasn't any grander than the Brewsters way back, if they have got a
little more money of late years. Cynthia's grandfather, old Squire
Lennox, used to keep the store, and live in one side of it, and her
mother's father, Calvin Goodenough, kept the tavern. I dunno as she
has so much to be proud of, though she's handsome enough, and shows
her bringin' up, as folks can't that ain't had it." Fanny winced a
little; her bringing up was a sore subject with her.

"Well, folks can't help their bringin' up," she retorted, sharply.

"There's Lloyd's team," Andrew said, quickly, partly to avert the
impending tongue-clash between his wife and mother.

He reined his horse to one side at a respectful distance, and Norman
H. Lloyd, with his wife at his side, swept by in his fine sleigh,
streaming on the wind with black fur tails, his pair of bays
stepping high to the music of their arches of bells. The Brewsters
eyed Norman Lloyd's Russian coat with the wide sable collar turned
up around his proud, clear-cut face, the fur-gauntleted hands which
held the lines and the whip, for Mr. Lloyd preferred to drive his
own blooded pair, both from a love of horseflesh and a greater
confidence in his own guidance than in that of other people. Mr.
Lloyd was no coward, but he would have confided to no man his
sensations had he sat behind those furnaces of fiery motion with
other hands than his own upon the lines.

"I should think Mis'