ty Jane did not understand her niece very much better than
Miranda; the difference between the sisters was, that while Jane was
puzzled, she was also attracted, and when she was quite in the dark for
an explanation of some quaint or unusual action she was sympathetic as
to its possible motive and believed the best. A greater change had come
over Jane than over any other person in the brick house, but it had
been wrought so secretly, and concealed so religiously, that it
scarcely appeared to the ordinary observer. Life had now a motive
utterly lacking before. Breakfast was not eaten in the kitchen, because
it seemed worth while, now that there were three persons, to lay the
cloth in the dining-room; it was also a more bountiful meal than of
yore, when there was no child to consider. The morning was made
cheerful by Rebecca's start for school, the packing of the luncheon
basket, the final word about umbrella, waterproof, or rubbers; the
parting admonition and the unconscious waiting at the window for the
last wave of the hand. She found herself taking pride in Rebecca's
improved appearance, her rounder throat and cheeks, and her better
color; she was wont to mention the length of Rebecca's hair and add a
word as to its remarkable evenness and lustre, at times when Mrs.
Perkins grew too diffuse about Emma Jane's complexion. She threw
herself wholeheartedly on her niece's side when it became a question
between a crimson or a brown linsey-woolsey dress, and went through a
memorable struggle with her sister concerning the purchase of a red
bird for Rebecca's black felt hat. No one guessed the quiet pleasure
that lay hidden in her heart when she watched the girl's dark head bent
over her lessons at night, nor dreamed of her joy it, certain quiet
evenings when Miranda went to prayer meeting; evenings when Rebecca
would read aloud Hiawatha or Barbara Frietchie, The Bugle Song, or The
Brook. Her narrow, humdrum existence bloomed under the dews that fell
from this fresh spirit; her dullness brightened under the kindling
touch of the younger mind, took fire from the "vital spark of heavenly
flame" that seemed always to radiate from Rebecca's presence.

Rebecca's idea of being a painter like her friend Miss Ross was
gradually receding, owing to the apparently insuperable difficulties in
securing any instruction. Her aunt Miranda saw no wisdom in cultivating
such a talent, and could not conceive that any money could ever be
earned by