s fixed upon her, and I leaned against the wall. It
was a gust that I knew would soon blow over. Veronica knew it also. At
the right moment she cried out: "Help Verry, she is sorry."

"Do eat your supper," Temperance called out in a loud voice. "The hash
is burnt to flinders."

She remained in the room to comment on our appetites, and encourage
Veronica, who was never hungry, to eat.

Veronica was an elfish creature, nine years old, diminutive and pale.
Her long, silky brown hair, which was as straight as an Indian's, like
mother's, and which she tore out when angry, usually covered her face,
and her wild eyes looked wilder still peeping through it. She was too
strange-looking for ordinary people to call her pretty, and so odd in
her behavior, so full of tricks, that I did not love her. She was a
silent child, and liked to be alone. But whoever had the charge of her
must be watchful. She tasted everything, and burnt everything, within
her reach. A blazing fire was too strong a temptation to be resisted.
The disappearance of all loose articles was ascribed to her; but
nothing was said about it, for punishment made her more impish and
daring in her pursuits. She had a habit of frightening us by hiding,
and appearing from places where no one had thought of looking for her.
People shook their heads when they observed her. The Morgesons smiled
significantly when she was spoken of, and asked:

"Do you think she is like her mother?"

There was a conflict in mother's mind respecting Veronica. She did not
love her as she loved me; but strove the harder to fulfill her duty.
When Verry suffered long and mysterious illnesses, which made her
helpless for weeks, she watched her day and night, but rarely caressed
her. At other times Verry was left pretty much to herself and her
ways, which were so separate from mine that I scarcely saw her. We
grew up ignorant of each other's character, though Verry knew me
better than I knew her; in time I discovered that she had closely
observed me, when I was most unaware.

We began to prosper about this time.

"Old Locke Morgeson had a long head," people said, when they talked
of our affairs. Father profited by his grandfather's plans, and
his means, too; less visionary, he had modified and brought out
practically many of his projections. Old Locke had left little to his
son John Morgeson, in the belief that father was the man to carry out
his ideas. Besides money, he left him a tract of g