trust you will not object, if I go on with the work I am reading.”

"I pray you to do so," said Miss Pickens softly. "Nothing is so distasteful as to be interrupted in the midst of a stirring tale."

"Why, you are right there," said Uncle Groner, seating himself at the table, but neglecting to open his book.

"I see you are reading one of my favorite books," said Miss Pickens gently.

When Mrs. Eden went to the kitchen, she found Mary crouching like a rabbit in a burrow. Mary made not the slightest noise, but alas! her mother knew she was there.

"Mary!" called Mrs. Eden cautiously.

"Mother," came a voice from the darkness, "my dress is so stained! I could not possibly see company as I am. I will just crouch here till they go away."

"But they are not going away," said Mrs. Eden firmly.

"Oh, mother!"

"No. Besides there is only one of them. You have heard of the Miss Pickens who is coming here to work up a music class? Her health failed her, where she was teaching in one of the largest conservatories of the East. Well, she is the 'company'; and she wants to board here and give you lessons."

Mary's voice came in ecstatic tones: "Oh mercy, mother, don't let her get away!" There was a scramble in the darkness.

"Come right in as you are," said Mrs. Eden. "I don't propose turning one hand's breadth out of the way for any boarder on earth. She might just as

well get used to seeing you in your work-clothes. Your Uncle Groner is with her this moment."

Mary wailed: "Then all is lost! You know how he fought the very suggestion of our helping out our poor income with another boarder."

"Let's hurry," said Mrs. Eden; "maybe we can circumvent your Uncle G."

Mary stifled something like an undignified giggle, as they sped to the parlor door. They opened it. Uncle Groner had left his seat beside the lamp and now he occupied a chair near Miss Goldie Pickens. His crutch lay across his knees, and he was listening to her soft voice with evident interest.

"And then," said Miss Pickens, evidently continuing their conversation, "I will read aloud to you some choice work of fiction. I have been told that my voice is not disagreeable; I can assure you it wears well. In this way, you and I, Mr. Thornberry, might pass many delightful hours."

"Yes, yes," said Uncle Groner, nodding his bullet head in emphatic approval.

A discussion of terms followed the entrance of the ladies. Miss Pickens was shown a room upstairs with which she professed herself charmed. She was definitely accepted as a boarder with Uncle Groner's full approbation. When they were once more settled in the parlor, the old widower made a pretense of reading his novel, but many a glance slipped off the edge of the page and encompassed the demure, saint-like face of the music-teacher. The drooping of Miss Pickens's lids and the slightly convex curve of the mouth gave an effect to the entire countenance, of separation, as it were, from the material elements of daily life. In the presence of that serious face and mellow, some

times half-audible voice, the higher functions of human affairs seemed commonplace, and the commonplace, vulgar. Moreover, the very slightness, not to say thinness, of the graceful form, suggested an existence entirely apart from the domain of bread and meat, while the changes of position, the slight advancement of one little foot before the other, the bend of the elbow, and the crook of the white fingers, seemed to be done to some fairy music too ethereal and remote for others' perception.

In contrast with this grave, half-appealing demeanor, Mary Eden cannot be said to have appeared at her best. In the homely surroundings of the kitchen, her dreamy brown eyes and pure brow had presented a delicate fineness like the quaintness of a white angel painted into a background of yellow brown, deepening to black. But Miss Goldie Pickens was so much more angelic against any background, that Mary's more masculine qualities were thrown into relief. The honesty of her spirit gave a curious effect of ruggedness to her expression, similar to the physical ruggedness of her mother. She became less the soft, yielding, fascinating woman, and more the unvexed soul of courage, patience, and will. Mrs. Eden perceived the difference, and felt intuitively that, to a man, the Pickens saintliness would more readily appeal. The mother-heart naturally felt resentment against the innocent boarder, but the Christian foot trampled this resentment in the dust.

"It would be of great help to me," said Miss Pickens, looking at Mrs. Eden as at a mother, then at Mary as at a sister, and then at Uncle Groner as at a person of immeasurable superiority, "if you could suggest any one likely to take lessons from me. You

say Mr. Winthrop Thornberry is your cousin; his daughter has engaged my services; perhaps you have other relatives in Core City?"

"I'm sorry to say that we have," said Uncle Groner, closing his book with a vicious snap. "The hackman who drove you here is one of 'em-Hodgins Thornberry."

"Is there any one in his family who wishes to pursue a musical education?"

Groner Thornberry snorted. "I wish you could teach him the tune the old cow died on; then maybe he'd go off and do it."

Miss Pickens looked pained, and her lids drooped. "Cousin Hodgins is very poor," said Mrs. Eden. "They couldn't afford it."

"Isn't it dreadful to be poor!" exclaimed Mary, with energy. "It's like walking down a beautiful country lane with your hands and feet tied; you can not reach out to gather the roses, and you can take but a short step at a time."

"It is sad," said Miss Pickens, her voice almost whispering like a soft breeze among autumn leaves.

"I think it's a disgrace," said Uncle Groner. "And to my mind, it's more like a man at a rockpile with an iron ball to his leg.'

Mrs. Eden looked at Mary and said, with a subtle lightening of her pliant face, “But we may smell the roses; and for every short step we take toward God, He comes a long way toward us."

"Well," said Uncle Groner, shying off from this lead, "Winthrop Thornberry's rich enough; he's the richest man in the county; five hundred thousand dollars at the least, and only two children. But it's nothing to him if his kinfolks die in the poorhouse."

Miss Pickens clasped her hands. "I shall be so timid when I go there to instruct his daughter; I shall be afraid of committing some breach of etiquette. I have never been used to the homes of the rich."

"When I go into a rich man's house," said Uncle Groner loudly, "I just dig my heel into his carpet, the same as if it was a rag carpet like this one; and when I shut the door, I slam it, if I want to. I suppose it's a continual feast to Winthrop Thornberry that he's a rich man; but he don't get any of his pleasure out of me; I don't feed anybody's pride."

"Cousin Winthrop is as good a man as ever lived,” said Mrs. Eden, with energy. "Miss Pickens," she added, reproof in her eye, "you ought to feel complimented, for I haven't known Uncle Groner to take so much time from his novels for many a day."

Miss Pickens cast a respectful, yet gracious, look at the old widower, who immediately betook himself to cover. "I think," said Miss Pickens, who had a wonderful memory for names, "I heard the hackdriver-Mr. Hodgins Thornberry-speak of a Mr. Timothy Thornberry. Has that gentleman any children ?"

"No," said Mrs. Eden, "but his three grandchildren live with him. They are all grown young men. Mr. Timothy Thornberry is my half-uncle."

"Do you think any of the young gentlemen would like to take music lessons?" asked the young lady softly.

Uncle Groner came out of his book. "Will is in the grocery-store with his grandfather," he said; "Oscar runs a restaurant; and Peter is in the bank. I don't see any gap in their activities for music to come in. The fact is, Miss Pickens__"