lue were more beautiful than anything Ethelyn had ever seen. She
did not wonder that every member of that family looked upon their lost
Daisy as the household angel, lowering their voices when they spoke of
her, and even retarding their footsteps when they passed near her
picture. She did wonder, however, that they were not more like what
Daisy would have been, judging from the expression of her face and all
Richard had said of her.

Between Mrs. Markham and Ethelyn there was from the first a mutual
feeling of antagonism, and it was in no degree lessened by Aunt
Barbara's letter, which Mrs. Markham read three times on Sunday, and
then on Monday very foolishly talked it up with Eunice, whom she treated
with a degree of familiarity wholly unaccountable to Ethelyn.

"What did that Miss Bigelow take her for that she must ask her to be
kind to Ethelyn? Of course she should do her duty, and she guessed her
ways were not so very different from other people's, either," and the
good woman gave an extra twist to the tablecloth she was wringing, and
shaking it out rather fiercely, tossed it into the huge clothes-basket
standing near.

The wash was unusually large that day and as the unpacking of the box
had taken up some time, the clock was striking two just as the last
clothespin was fastened in its place, and the last brown towel hung upon
the currant bushes. It was Mrs. Markham's weakness that her wash should
be fluttering in the wind before that of Mrs. Jones, which could be
plainly seen from her kitchen window. But to-day Mrs. Jones was ahead,
and Melinda's pink sun-bonnet was visible in the little back-yard as
early as eleven, at which time the Markham garments had just commenced
to boil. The bride had brought with her a great deal of extra work, and
what with waiting breakfast for her until the coffee was cold and the
baked potatoes "all soggy," and then cleaning up the litter of "that
box," Mrs. Markham was dreadfully behind with her Monday's work. And it
did not tend to improve her temper to know that the cause of all her
discomposure was "playing lady" in a handsome cashmere morning gown,
with heavy tassels knotted at her side, while she was bending over the
washtub in a faded calico pinned about her waist, and disclosing the
quilt patched with many colors, and the black yarn stockings footed with
coarse white. Not that Mrs. Markham cared especially for the difference
between her dress and Ethelyn's--neither did she ex