certain element of
ingenuous unconsciousness in which they were not so far unlike,--it only
placed them in the more complete antagonism. Perhaps if two beings were
in absolutely no respect alike, they never could meet even for purposes
of hostility; there must be some common ground from which the aversion
may proceed. Moreover, in this case Aunt Jane utterly disbelieved in
Malbone because she had reason to disbelieve in his father, and
the better she knew the son the more she disliked the father
retrospectively.

Philip was apt to be very heedless of such aversions,--indeed, he had
few to heed,--but it was apparent that Aunt Jane was the only person
with whom he was not quite at ease. Still, the solicitude did not
trouble him very much, for he instinctively knew that it was not his
particular actions which vexed her, so much as his very temperament and
atmosphere,--things not to be changed. So he usually went his way; and
if he sometimes felt one of her sharp retorts, could laugh it off that
day and sleep it off before the next morning.

For you may be sure that Philip was very little troubled by inconvenient
memories. He never had to affect forgetfulness of anything. The past
slid from him so easily, he forgot even to try to forget. He liked to
quote from Emerson, "What have I to do with repentance?" "What have my
yesterday's errors," he would say, "to do with the life of to-day?"

"Everything," interrupted Aunt Jane, "for you will repeat them to-day,
if you can."

"Not at all," persisted he, accepting as conversation what she meant as
a stab. "I may, indeed, commit greater errors,"--here she grimly nodded,
as if she had no doubt of it,--"but never just the same. To-day must
take thought for itself."

"I wish it would," she said, gently, and then went on with her own
thoughts while he was silent. Presently she broke out again in her
impulsive way.

"Depend upon it," she said, "there is very little direct retribution in
this world."

Phil looked up, quite pleased at her indorsing one of his favorite
views. She looked, as she always did, indignant at having said anything
to please him.

"Yes," said she, "it is the indirect retribution that crushes. I've seen
enough of that, God knows. Kate, give me my thimble."

Malbone had that smooth elasticity of surface which made even Aunt
Jane's strong fingers slip from him as they might from a fish, or from
the soft, gelatinous stem of the water-target. Even in this c