ts of a human being merely was what she wanted; she should
fight for them; that was what paupers must do. Mother allowed her
to do as she pleased. Her duties commenced with calling us up to
breakfast _en masse_, and for once the experiment was successful,
for we all met at the table. The dining-room was in complete order, a
thing that had never happened early before; the rest of us missed the
straggling breakfast which consumed so much time.

"Whose doing is this?" asked father, looking round the table.

"It is Fanny's," I answered, rattling the cups. "All the coffee to be
poured out at once, don't agitate me."

Fanny, bearing buckwheat cakes, looked proud and modest, as people do
who appreciate their own virtues.

"Why, Fanny," said the father, "you have done wonders; you are more
original than Cassy or Verry."

Her green eyes glowed; her aspect was so feline that I expected her
hair to rise.

"Father's praise pleases you more than ours," Verry said.

"You never gave me any," she answered, marching out.

Father looked up at Verry, annoyed, but said nothing. We paid no
attention to Fanny's call afterward; but she continued her labors,
which proved acceptable to him. Temperance told me, when she was with
us for a week, that his overcoats, hats, umbrellas, and whips never
had such care as Fanny gave them. He omitted from this time to ask us
if we knew where his belongings were, but went to Fanny; and I noticed
that he required much attendance.

Temperance, who had arrived in the thick of the company, as she termed
it, was sorry to go back to Abram. He _was_ a good man, she said; but
it was a dreadful thing for a woman to lose her liberty, especially
when liberty brought so much idle time. "Why, girls, I have quilted
and darned up every rag in the house. He _will_ do half the housework
himself; he is an everlasting Betty." She was cheerful, however, and
helped Hepsey, as well as the rest of us.

The guests did not encroach on my time, but it was a relief to have
them gone and the house our own once more.

I went to Milford again, almost daily, to feast my eyes on the bleak,
flat, gray landscape. The desolation of winter sustains our frail
hopes. Nature is kindest then; she does not taunt us with fruition.
It is the luxury of summer which tantalizes--her long, brilliant,
blossoming days, her dewy, radiant nights.

Entering the house one March evening, when it was unusually still,
I had reached the front hall,