last in his old home, Patterson's coming,—sent for by his heart-broken mother,—this was the rest of the story. But before this family difference had been settled by the stern hand of death, the removal of Thomas Gilpin had precipitated another quarrel upon the town.

It was a puzzle to Morgan that a man like his old friend Mr. Gilpin, who had it in his power to do so much good, should have chosen to do harm instead. As he rose to go, he looked over his shoulder at the old house, closed and deserted since the death of its owner.

The site was a beautiful one, commanding a view of valley and hill and the narrow winding river. The house, an unpretentious square of red brick, with sloping roof and dormer windows, wore its hundred years with dignity, and amid its fine trees was an object of interest to strangers, of pride to the villagers.

Below it on the slope stood a more modern house, in what had been until recently a handsome garden. Morgan, as he passed recalled how proud Dr. Fair had been of his flowers. Celia, who was entering the gate, nodded and smiled brightly. He noted, however, that her face was losing its soft curves and rose tints. Celia was another of his favorites, and he knew she was having her battle with misfortune, meeting it as bravely as a young woman could. Thomas Gilpin might so easily have smoothed the way for her. The spinet was an interesting heirloom, no doubt, but would not help Celia solve the problem of bread and butter.

The shop of the cabinet-maker was just off Main Street, at the foot of the hill. To its original two rooms he had added two more, and here he lived with no companions but a striped cat and a curly dog, who endured each other and shared the affection of their master.

Morgan's housekeeping was not burdensome. Certain of his neighbors always remembered him on baking day, and his tastes were simple. His shop opened immediately on the street; back of it was his living room and the small garden where he cultivated the gayest blooms. The living room had an open fireplace, for it was one of the cabinet-maker's pleasures to sit in the firelight when the work of the day was over, and a small oil stove sufficed for his cooking. On one side of the chimney was a high-backed settle, and above it a book shelf. Like most Scotch boys, he had had a fair education, and possessed a genuine reverence for books and a love of reading. In the opposite corner was an ancient mahogany desk where he kept his accounts, and near by in the window a shelf always full of plants in the winter. A cupboard of his own manufacture, a table, a lamp, and an arm-chair completed the furniture of the room. The walls he had painted a dull red, and over the fireplace in fanciful letters had traced this motto: "Good in everything."

To this cheerful belief Morgan held firmly, although there were times like this morning, when coming out of the sunlight and feeling a little weary, he noticed that the walls were growing dingy and the motto dim, and sighed to think how hard it was to see the good in some things.

He placed a paper in the old secretary and was turning toward the shop when he stopped short in amazement, for in the doorway stood Rosalind, her face full of eagerness. Behind her was Miss Herbert, whom Morgan entirely overlooked in his pleasure at seeing Mr. Pat's little girl again.

He shook hands warmly and offered the arm-chair, but Rosalind had no thought of sitting down. As she gazed with bright-eyed interest around the room, her glance fell on the motto, and she pointed to it and then to herself.

The cabinet-maker was puzzled. "Is it your motto?" he asked.

She nodded brightly.

Morgan turned to the shelf, took down a large volume of Shakespeare's plays, and laying it on the table began to turn the pages rapidly. Rosalind looked over his arm. He ran his finger down a leaf presently and pointed to the line. "There," he said.

Rosalind turned back a page and pointed to her own name, and then they both laughed as if it were a great coincidence.

A sharp tap on his arm made Miss Herbert's presence known to Morgan. Miss Herbert was not of Friendship. She knew the value of time if the cabinet-maker did not, and had no idea of waiting while he discussed Shakespeare in pantomime with Rosalind.

Miss Herbert with the aid of the tablet, and Morgan with many queer gestures to help out his faltering tongue, so long without the guide of hearing, contrived to despatch the business relating to a claw-footed sofa. When it was finished, Rosalind was missing, and was discovered in the little garden, making friends with the black poodle, while the striped cat looked on from the fence.

It was with evident reluctance she accompanied Miss Herbert to the carriage. Before she left she took the tablet and wrote, "I am going to learn to talk on my fingers."

"Good," the cabinet-maker answered, and he followed them to the street, smiling and nodding. "Come again," he called as they drove away.

When he returned to the shop, the world seemed brighter, the mist of doubt had lifted.

"The rough places can't last always," he told himself as he sandpapered the claw toes of the sofa. "We are certain to come to a turn in the lane after a while. There's good in everything, somewhere."

Perhaps the coming of Mr. Pat's little girl was a good omen. To him at least it was a most interesting event, nor was he the only person in Friendship who found it so.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

AN UNQUIET MORNING.

"You amaze me, ladies."

Farther up the street on the other side, but within sight of the Whittredges', was Mrs. Graham's Boarding and Day School for Young Ladies.

The broad, one story and a half mansion, with rooms enough for a small hotel, was still known as the Bishop place, although nearly twenty years had passed since the little brown and white house on Church Street had opened its doors to Miss Betty and her invalid father, and to such of the massive furniture as could be accommodated within its walls. In her circular Mrs. Graham was careful to state that her school was commodiously housed in the mansion of the late distinguished Senator Charlton H. Bishop, and many a daughter groaned over her algebra or French verbs in the very room where her mother or grandmother before her had fleeted the time carelessly in evenings long past, for brilliant was the tradition of the Bishop hospitality.

Celia Fair, who taught drawing in the school, and on occasion kept study hour in what had once been the long drawing-room, had a fancy that the spirit of those days was responsible for many an outburst of mischief. At present Mrs. Graham's pupils were in a fever of curiosity over the new arrival at the Whittredges'.

The Whittredge place had been invested by them with something of a halo of romance, founded chiefly on the seclusion In which it pleased Mrs. Whittredge to live. Bits of gossip let fall by their elders were eagerly treasured; it became the fashion, to rave over the beauty of the haughty Miss Genevieve, and even her brother who was not haughty, but quite like other people, was allowed a share of the halo on account of his connection with the lost ring, made famous by the contested will.

Katherine Roberts, returning to school after several days' absence, found herself unusually popular. Katherine lived next door to the unknown; she had seen her; it was even said she had heard her speak. Excitement grew as the news spread.

The girls were standing in groups on the porch and steps, laughing and talking together, and at sight of Katherine gave her an uproarious greeting.

Round, rosy-faced, blue-eyed Katherine, with her brown hair in two tight plaits turned under and tied with a ribbon behind her ears, was a little abashed at the attention she excited.

"What is