very pathetic you are telling her, she
will give a sudden, perfectly irrelevant smile, over her baby's last
crow, and your best story is hopelessly spoiled because she loses the
point (though she pretends she hasn't) while she rearranges the sashes
of Ethel and Tottie (they are always rearranging them), who are going
out to walk with their nurse. Still, bad as this is, I have come to the
conclusion, lately, that invalid-questions are worse, because they are
not confined to the hours when children are about; and so I have given
Margaret my directions."

"Which are to be mine too, I suppose," said Winthrop, smiling. "Mrs.
Harold looks well."

"Yes, Margaret always looks the same, I think. She has not that highly
colored, robust appearance that some women have, but her health is
absolutely perfect; it's really quite wonderful," said the aunt. She
paused; then sighed. "I almost think that it has been like an armor to
her," she went on. "I don't believe she feels little things as some of
us do, some of us who are perhaps more sensitive; she is never nervous,
never disturbed, her temper is so even that it is almost exasperating.
She thinks as well of everything, for instance, in an east wind as in
any other."

"A great gift in some climates; but here it will have less play. Gracias
air isn't easterly, it bends towards one--yields, melts."

"I wish Margaret could yield--melt," said Mrs. Rutherford, with another
sigh. "You see my mind still broods upon it, Evert; seeing you, my other
boy, brings it all back."

"I don't know, but I suppose you do, whether Lanse has made any
overtures lately?" said Winthrop, after a moment of silence.

"I know nothing, she is the most reticent woman living. But it would not
be like him; with his pride--you know his pride--he would never speak
first, never urge."

"A man might speak first to his wife, I should suppose," replied
Winthrop, a stern expression showing itself for a moment in his gray
eyes. "It need not be urging, it might be a command."

"Lanse would never do that. It would show that he cared, and--well, you
know his disposition."

"I used to think that I knew it; but of late years I have doubted my
knowledge."

"Don't doubt it, Evert," said Mrs. Rutherford, earnestly, laying her
hand on his arm, "he is just what you think, just what he always was. We
understand him, you and I--we comprehend him; unfortunately, Margaret
cannot."

"I have never pretended to judge Mrs. Har