y evil, as the
odious means of their own prosperity. Mrs. March found that the women of
the family seemed glad of her coming, and in the sense of her usefulness
to them all she began to feel a kindness even for Christine. But she
could not help seeing that between the girl and her father there was an
unsettled account, somehow, and that it was Christine and not the old
man who was holding out. She thought that their sorrow had tended to
refine the others. Mela was much more subdued, and, except when she
abandoned herself to a childish interest in her mourning, she did
nothing to shock Mrs. March's taste or to seem unworthy of her grief.
She was very good to her mother, whom the blow had left unchanged, and
to her father, whom it had apparently fallen upon with crushing weight.
Once, after visiting their house, Mrs. March described to March a little
scene between Dryfoos and Mela, when he came home from Wall Street, and
the girl met him at the door with a kind of country simpleness, and took
his hat and stick, and brought him into the room where Mrs. March sat,
looking tired and broken. She found this look of Dryfoos's pathetic, and
dwelt on the sort of stupefaction there was in it; he must have loved
his son more than they ever realized. "Yes," said March, "I suspect
he did. He's never been about the place since that day; he was always
dropping in before, on his way up-town. He seems to go down to Wall
Street every day, just as before, but I suppose that's mechanical;
he wouldn't know what else to do; I dare say it's best for him. The
sanguine Fulkerson is getting a little anxious about the future of
'Every Other Week.' Now Conrad's gone, he isn't sure the old man will
want to keep on with it, or whether he'll have to look up another Angel.
He wants to get married, I imagine, and he can't venture till this point
is settled."

"It's a very material point to us too, Basil," said Mrs. March.

"Well, of course. I hadn't overlooked that, you may be sure. One of the
things that Fulkerson and I have discussed is a scheme for buying the
magazine. Its success is pretty well assured now, and I shouldn't be
afraid to put money into it--if I had the money."

"I couldn't let you sell the house in Boston, Basil!"

"And I don't want to. I wish we could go back and live in it and get the
rent, too! It would be quite a support. But I suppose if Dryfoos won't
keep on, it must come to another Angel. I hope it won't be a literary
one,