d creature were roaming up and down,
dissatisfied, in the shelter of the clouds. The pale haze extended into
the foreground, and half veiled the schooners that lay at anchor with
their sails up. It was sultry, and there was something in the atmosphere
that at once threatened and soothed. Sometimes a few drops dimpled the
water and then ceased; the muttering creature in the sky moved northward
and grew still. It was a day when every one would be tempted to go out
rowing, but when only lovers would go. Philip and Hope went.

Kate and Harry, meanwhile, awaited their opportunity to go in and visit
Aunt Jane. This was a thing that never could be done till near noon,
because that dear lady was very deliberate in her morning habits,
and always averred that she had never seen the sun rise except in
a panorama. She hated to be hurried in dressing, too; for she was
accustomed to say that she must have leisure to understand herself, and
this was clearly an affair of time.

But she was never more charming than when, after dressing and
breakfasting in seclusion, and then vigilantly watching her handmaiden
through the necessary dustings and arrangements, she sat at last, with
her affairs in order, to await events. Every day she expected something
entirely new to happen, and was never disappointed. For she herself
always happened, if nothing else did; she could no more repeat herself
than the sunrise can; and the liveliest visitor always carried away
something fresher and more remarkable than he brought.

Her book that morning had displeased her, and she was boiling with
indignation against its author.

"I am reading a book so dry," she said, "it makes me cough. No wonder
there was a drought last summer. It was printed then. Worcester's
Geography seems in my memory as fascinating as Shakespeare, when I look
back upon it from this book. How can a man write such a thing and live?"

"Perhaps he lived by writing it," said Kate.

"Perhaps it was the best he could do," added the more literal Harry.

"It certainly was not the best he could do, for he might have
died,--died instead of dried. O, I should like to prick that man with
something sharp, and see if sawdust did not run out of him! Kate, ask
the bookseller to let me know if he ever really dies, and then life may
seem fresh again."

"What is it?" asked Kate.

"Somebody's memoirs," said Aunt Jane. "Was there no man left worth
writing about, that they should make a biography ab