s closed and her face screwed up tightly, which was her usual
expression when musical. "And I suppose it refers to rheumatism," she
added, descending to her ordinary tones; "but it's very irreverent. He
doesn't know 'The Draggle-tail Gypsies,' nor yet 'Barbara Allen,' nor
yet 'I'll Make You a Present of a Coach and Six;' but I'm going to sing
'em to him some day. I feel that I must do my duty by him, poor
neglected African. Have you any objections to my teaching him to read?"

"No, provided he doesn't read my books," Mrs. Rutherford answered.

"He will read in McGuffey's Third Reader," responded Celestine.

Winthrop had retained his bachelor quarters at the Seminole; the house
over the old monks' passage was not large, and Mrs. Rutherford was fond
of space. She liked open doors in all directions, she liked to have
several sitting-rooms; she liked to leave her book in one, her fan in
another, her scent-bottle or handkerchief in a third, and have nobody
disturb them.

"I don't detect in you, Aunt Katrina, any signs of the ruin you
mentioned," her nephew said, as they sat together, that first evening,
on the piazza.

The light from the room within shone across Mrs. Rutherford's face and
the soft waves of her silvery hair as, with a pink shawl thrown round
her, she sat leaning back in an easy-chair. "Celestine repairs the
breaches so cleverly that no doubt I continue to present a fair
appearance to the world," she answered, drawing the shawl more closely
round her shoulders, and then letting her hands drop on its pink
fringes.

Mrs. Rutherford's hands always took statuesque positions; but probably
that was because they were statuesque hands. They were perfect in shape
according to sculptors' rules, full and white, one ringless, its
beautiful outlines unmarred, the other heavily weighted with gems, which
flashed as she moved.

"But pray don't imagine, my dear boy," she continued, "that I enjoy my
ill health, as so many women do. On the contrary, I dislike it--dislike
it so much that I have even arranged with Margaret that she is never to
ask me (save when we are alone) any of those invalid questions--whether
I have slept well, how my cough is, if there isn't a draught, and that
sort of thing. I used to think that talking with a mother when her
children were in the room, was the most trying thing, conversationally;
she listens to you with one ear, but the other is listening to Johnnie;
right in the midst of something