me
to dress. On no account are you to hurry. . . . It is essential that at
no point--at _no_ point, dear--you allow yourself to be hurried, or to
show any trace of hurry."

Ruth nodded slowly. "Yes, Tatty. I understand. But, little lioness
that you are, do _you?_ You will be alone, and for some time with
these--with these--"

"I have never mentioned it to a living soul before," said Miss Quiney,
dismissing Manasseh with a wave of the hand and closing the door upon
him; "but I had an eldest brother--in the Massachusetts militia--who,
not to put too fine a point on it, was sadly addicted to the bottle.
It shortened his days. . . . A bright young genius, of which we hoped
much, and (I fear me) not all unselfishly, for our family was
impoverished. But he went astray. Towards the end he would bring home
his boon companions--I will say this for poor dear George, that his
footsteps, at their unsteadiest, ever tended homeward; he never affected
low haunts--and it fell to me as the eldest daughter of the house to
keep his hospitality within bounds--"

"Dear Tatty!" Ruth stooped and kissed the plain little face, cutting
short the narrative. It was strange to note how these two of diverse
ages--between whom for the length of their acquaintance no dispute of
mastery had arisen--now suddenly and in quick alternation, out of pure
love, asserted will against will. "You shall tell me to-morrow.
(I always knew that your meekness and weakness were only pretence.)
But just now we must hurry."

"Hurry, as I must repeat," answered Miss Quiney primly, smoothing down
the front of her creased grey satin skirt, "is--will be--our capital
mistake. For me, I need in this weather but an additional shawl.
I am ready. . . . Go to your room . . . and let me enjoin a certain
deliberation even in crossing the hall. Manasseh is there, and before
servants--even a negro--The white brocade if I may advise; it is fresher
than the rose-coloured silk--and the hair combed a trifle higher off the
brows. That, with the brocade, will correct your girlishness somewhat.
Brocades are for dignity, and it is dignity we chiefly need to-night.
. . . Shall I send Selina to you? No? Well, she would be persuading
you to some new twist or experiment with your hair, and you are better
without her. Also I shall want a last word with you when I have fetched
my cloak, and Selina is better out of the way."

Miss Quiney's last word was a curious one. It too