te contrasts to each other. He
was a stout, gray-haired man with a pleasant, genial countenance, though
it was not without its lines of care. Mrs. Baxter, on the contrary, had
a long melancholy face and anxious blue eyes. Her black gown clung to
her thin figure in limp folds; her features were not bad, and a little
liveliness and expression would have made her a good-looking woman; but
her dejected air and want of colouring detracted from her comeliness,
and of late years her voice had grown peevish as well as plaintive, as
though her troubles had been too heavy for her. Audrey had a sincere
respect for her; but she certainly wished that Mrs. Baxter took a less
lugubrious view of life. At times she would try to infuse a little of
her own cheerfulness; but she soon found that Mrs. Baxter was too
closely wrapped in her melancholy. In her own language, she preferred
the house of mourning to the house of feasting.

'Oh, I hope there is nothing fresh the matter!' repeated Audrey, whose
clear-sighted sympathy was never at fault.

She thought that Mr. O'Brien's genial face looked a shade graver than
usual.

'Come and sit down, Miss Ross, and I will be hurrying the girl with the
tea,' observed Mrs. Baxter mournfully, for she was never too lachrymose
to be hospitable, and though she shed tears on slight occasions, she was
always disposed to press her hot buttered cakes on her guests, and any
refusal to taste her good cheer would have grievously wounded her
bruised sensibilities. 'Father, take Miss Ross into the best parlour
while I help Hannah a bit.'

And as Mr. O'Brien laid aside his pipe and led the way into the house,
Audrey followed him, nothing loath.

'Joe's been troubling Priscilla again,' he observed, as Audrey seated
herself on the little horsehair sofa beside the open window, and Buff, a
great tortoise-shell cat, jumped uninvited on her lap and began purring
loudly.

'Joe!' repeated Audrey in a shocked voice; she knew very well who was
meant. Joe was the ne'er-do-well of a son-in-law whose iniquities had
transformed the young and comely Priscilla into the meagre and
colourless Mrs. Baxter. 'He has no right to trouble her!' she went on
indignantly.

'He has been worrying for money again,' returned Mr. O'Brien, ruffling
up his gray hair in a discontented fashion; 'he says he is hard up. But
that is only one of Joe's lies; he tells lies by the peck. He had a good
coat on, and looked as thriving as possible, and