Julie; she is the most independent, ungrateful young minx I ever heard of!”

“Oh—ah—not that, Nancy, not that, I am sure—ahem—you must be mistaken. She impressed me as a very gentle, sweet young creature.”

“Gentle fiddlesticks! Do you call that gentle?” flaunting the letter in his face.

“Possibly, my dear, if I were to know the contents of the letter I might be better able to form an opinion.”

She handed it over and watched him read it.

“Ah,” he commented at the end, “what remarkably original girls!”

“Give that letter to me, Driscoe,” (she had always called him Driscoe from the beginning) “I don’t believe you half understand it—you are always way off in the clouds somewhere when you haven’t got your nose buried in a book. Those girls are going to work—to cook! They actually prefer to cook for a living when they might come down here and live like ladies the rest of their lives. They have moved into rooms their Doctor found for them—I expect it is one of those nasty little places they call flats, in some horrid neighborhood and I am sure no one will go near them and they’ll die of loneliness with their crazy notions.” “Cook!” she repeated scornfully, “who ever heard of a lady doing a servant’s work!” The little pink bow on the top of her head fairly quivered in outraged sympathy.

“I am sure the girls appreciate your offer to give them a home,” Colonel Driscoe said when he was allowed to speak, “Julie’s letter speaks very feelingly about it. If they think it wise to try and be independent I must say I can’t help but admire their spirit.”

“That is all you know about it! In my day girls did not do odd, independent things—they did as they were told!”

It occurred to the Colonel that her day was past, but he wisely refrained from giving the thought utterance.

“A lot of your foolish Northern notions still cling to you Driscoe,” she said resentfully. “It is my opinion that those Dale girls have disgraced the family—there is too much of their father in them—a true Fairleigh would never stoop to menial labor; and yet their mother and I had the same Fairleigh grandmother. Oh, it is too trying—their behavior—too trying for anything! It terrifies me to think what they may come to!” She stopped rocking in her chair and sniffed audibly.

“There, there, Nancy, don’t take it so to heart,” comforted her husband, “it may be best as it is—we’ll see if we can’t raise a little money somewhere to send them—the poor young things must be in sore straits these days with poverty to face and an invalid father to take care of.”

“Umph! they don’t act like it—and as for money, I don’t see it lying round loose on the plantation.”

This was a sore point with the Colonel, who was known since his marriage to have swallowed up a considerable portion of his small income patenting farming implements that were impracticable. He had been a bachelor with an inventive turn of mind and only one lung when he met the Widow Chisholme at the Springs. Upon marrying her it seemed most desirable for her convenience (for she would never have tolerated life outside of Virginia) and his health, that they should live on the Chisholme property, which was somewhat extensive and kept them land poor. Mr. Driscoe, New Hampshire born and bred, settled down into a country gentleman and turned his attention to agriculture; but his mind, half inventive, half scholarly, wholly visionary, had made rather a sorry mess of it, and his wife, who had never relinquished the reins of government, now held them with a firmer hand. He was Colonel only by courtesy, the servants having dubbed him that immediately. It was impossible for them to recognize a real gentleman without a title.

He said no more about money, but shaded his eyes and looked down the long avenue leading out to the road. In the distance he could see a small darky open a gate, while down the road came a horse with a swift gallop.

“Here comes Nannie, my dear. She will not be pleased with your news, will she?” the Colonel said regretfully.

The girl brought the horse up with a sharp turn at the steps, thereby causing consternation to a brood of chickens, which scattered in every direction. Then she threw the bridle to George Washington and slipped to the ground.

“My,” she exclaimed, fanning herself with her hat, “it is pretty warm riding.”

“Now don’t sit down there and take cold,” expostulated her mother; “here, put my shawl around you.”

Nannie, who had dropped down on the steps, laughed and shook her head. “A shawl in October! who ever heard of such a thing. I am all right, mummie; don’t take it off—it looks so pretty on you.” She smiled at her mother, who was not proof against this bit of flattery, though her only manifestation was a closer drawing of the shawl around her shoulders. “Don’t you feel very well, mummie?” the girl asked, conscious that the atmosphere was not altogether salubrious.

“Well enough,” replied the older woman, flipping a letter nervously between her fingers as she rocked to and fro.

“Your mother has heard from your cousin Julie,” volunteered the Colonel.

“Let me see the letter, quick, mummie. When are they coming?”

“They are not coming at all,” replied Mrs. Driscoe, with a resentful toss of her head, meanwhile thrusting the obnoxious letter into her pocket.

Nan’s face fell. “Oh, mummie, can’t I see the letter, please?”

“Certainly not. It is full of crazy ideas that are most unbecoming in a young girl, and I don’t consider such things proper for you to read.”

Colonel Driscoe gave an apologetic cough and opened his lips as if to speak, but apparently thought better of it and studied his finger nails with unwonted interest. Nan drew cabalistic signs on the steps with her riding crop, and for some moments the silence was unbroken save for the half chuckling singing of George Washington, who was turning somersaults near by. Then Nannie said wistfully:

“May I know why the girls are not coming, please?”

The Colonel started to explain, but was overruled by his wife, who preferred to give her own interpretation of the case. Accordingly she poured out a torrent of abuse, in which her own individual woes over what she called their “disobedience” were so involved with a mixed statement of facts that Nan might have been led to believe that her cousins were lost to all sense of propriety had she not thoroughly understood her mother. As it was she listened quietly, sympathized with and petted her, and told her not to bother her head any more about two naughty girls in the North. She was a girl of considerable tact, this Nannie, for all that the whole establishment “babied” her, and she knew just how to smooth down her mother’s ruffled plumage; so that Mrs. Driscoe, after a good, comfortable cry, which was a great relief to her overwrought feelings, was persuaded to go indoors and lie down to recover from the shock of the morning.

Nannie remained on the verandah with her father. “Will you tell me about it now?” she said, when her mother was well out of hearing.

The Colonel’s version, as he understood it from Julie’s letter was expressed in five minutes.

“Oh, dear!” Nannie exclaimed, when he had finished, “I wish they did not feel that way about things. I did so hope they were going to bring their father here and let us nurse him, and live with us, and be just like my own sisters—I’ve always wanted a sister so! I can’t seem to make it out exactly, pa, how girls like