want to go! Something will have to be done with you,
that's certain. Is this satisfactory?"

"Perfectly," I said promptly. "If you will add thereto your promise
that you will forget and forgive, Uncle Abimelech. There are to be no
hard feelings."

Uncle Abimelech shrugged his shoulders.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," he said. "Very well, Prue. We wipe
off all scores and begin afresh. But there must be no more such
doings. You've worked your little scheme through--trust a Foster for
that! But in future you've got to remember that in law you're a
Melville whatever you are in fact."

I nodded dutifully. "I'll remember, Uncle Abimelech," I promised.

After everything had been arranged and Uncle Abimelech had gone I
looked at Murray. "Well?" I said.

Murray twinkled. "You've accomplished the impossible, sis. But, as
Uncle Abimelech intimated--don't you try it again."

A Sandshore Wooing

Fir Cottage, Plover Sands.
July Sixth.

We arrived here late last night, and all day Aunt Martha has kept her
room to rest. So I had to keep mine also, although I felt as fresh as
a morning lark, and just in the mood for enjoyment.

My name is Marguerite Forrester--an absurdly long name for so small a
girl. Aunt Martha always calls me Marguer_ite_, with an accent of
strong disapproval. She does not like my name, but she gives me the
full benefit of it. Connie Shelmardine used to call me Rita. Connie
was my roommate last year at the Seminary. We correspond occasionally,
but Aunt Martha frowns on it.

I have always lived with Aunt Martha--my parents died when I was a
baby. Aunt Martha says I am to be her heiress if I please her--which
means--but, oh, you do not know what "pleasing" Aunt Martha means.

Aunt is a determined and inveterate man-hater. She has no particular
love for women, indeed, and trusts nobody but Mrs. Saxby, her maid. I
rather like Mrs. Saxby. She is not quite so far gone in petrifaction
as Aunt, although she gets a little stonier every year. I expect the
process will soon begin on me, but it hasn't yet. My flesh and blood
are still unreasonably warm and pulsing and rebellious.

Aunt Martha would be in danger of taking a fit if she ever saw me
talking to a man. She watches me jealously, firmly determined to guard
me from any possible attack of a roaring and ravening lion in the
disguise of nineteenth-centur