n she heard her
husband's voice in the hall.

"Harrie, Harrie, your friend is here. I found her, by a charming
accident, at the station, and drove her home." And Miss Dallas, gloved,
perfumed, rustling, in a very becoming veil and travelling-suit of the
latest mode, swept in upon her.

Harrie was too much of a lady to waste any words on apology, so she ran
just as she was, in her calico dress, with the collar hanging, into
Pauline's stately arms, and held up her little burning cheeks to be
kissed.

But her husband looked annoyed.

He came down before tea in his best coat to entertain their guest. Biddy
was "taking an afternoon" that day, and Harrie bustled about with her
aching back to make tea and wash the children. She had no time to spend
upon herself, and, rather than keep a hungry traveller waiting, smoothed
her hair, knotted a ribbon at the collar, and came down in her calico
dress.

Dr. Sharpe glanced at it in some surprise. He repeated the glances
several times in the course of the evening, as he sat chatting with his
wife's friend. Miss Dallas was very sprightly in conversation; had read
some, had thought some; and had the appearance of having read and
thought about twice as much as she had.

Myron Sharpe had always considered his wife a handsome woman. That
nobody else thought her so had made no difference to him. He had often
looked into the saucy eyes of little Harrie Bird, and told her that she
was very pretty. As a matter of theory, he supposed her to be very
pretty, now that she was the mother of his three children, and breaking
her back to cut out his shirts.

Miss Dallas was a generously framed, well-proportioned woman, who
carried long trains, and tied her hair with crimson velvet. She had
large, serene eyes, white hands, and a very pleasant smile. A delicate
perfume stirred as she stirred, and she wore a creamy lace about her
throat and wrists.

Calicoes were never becoming to Harrie, and that one with the palm-leaf
did not fit her well,--she cut it herself, to save expense. As the
evening passed, in reaction from the weariness of shirt-cutting she grew
pale, and the sallow tints upon her face came out; her features
sharpened, as they had a way of doing when she was tired; and she had
little else to do that evening than think how tired she was, for her
husband observing, as he remarked afterwards, that she did not feel like
talking, kindly entertained her friend himself.

As they went up