goes."

Linda was silent for a moment. "But, Mammy," she said presently, "I don't feel that it is exactly right for you to do that way. If you go to town with me to see about a place, I am responsible in a measure."

"No, yuh ain't. Who say I cain't go see Miss Ri? I ain't a-gwine bag an' baggage. Ef I doesn't go with yuh, I goes on Shanks's mare."

"But who will get dinner to-day?"

"I reckon I kin git Popsy to come in an' git it."

"Well, go along and find out, for I want to get off pretty soon."

Mammy put a discarded felt hat of Martin Talbot's upon her head, and an old table-cover over her shoulders, then sallied forth down the road in search of the woman whose little cabin was one of a number belonging to a negro settlement not far off. Trips to town were so infrequent upon Phebe's part, and she demanded so few afternoons out, that what she wanted was generally conceded her, and though Grace pouted and said she didn't see why both Linda and Phebe should be away at the same time, Lauretta smoothed her down by saying: "Oh, never mind, Gracie dear, I have no doubt the other servant will do very well, and we'll have a nice cosey day together. I can see to everything, and it will give me a good chance to poke around. Old Phebe is such a martinet, she won't allow me inside the kitchen when she is here."

"She certainly is a regular tyrant," admitted Grace, "but no one can cook better, and I am glad to keep her, for down here it is hard to get competent servants; they are all more or less independent."

"Her being away to-day won't make much difference to you and I," replied Lauretta, with careful attention to her pronoun. She was always very particular never to say you and me. "I'm not a bad cook myself, and we can try some of our own home recipes. For my part, I should think you would get rather tired of oysters and Maryland biscuits."

"I do," returned Grace plaintively. "Linda doesn't always consider me in ordering. Dear Martin didn't seem to notice that until I called his attention to it."

"I don't see why you didn't take up all the housekeeping at the very first," responded Lauretta.

"Oh, I was so unused to it, and these Eastern Shore ways were so unfamiliar. Linda understood them much better than I. Besides, it would have taken up so much of the time I might want to be with Martin." She sighed deeply and wiped a furtive tear before going on: "Then, too," she continued, "I didn't want to neglect my friends, and it does take time to write letters. Everyone always said I was such a good correspondent, and when anyone is in trouble, that my letters are so sympathetic."

Lauretta changed the subject. Even in her sisterly eyes Grace was almost too eager a correspondent. "Why has Linda gone to town?" she asked. "To do some shopping? I suppose she will need some additions to her wardrobe now she is in mourning and is going to town to live."

"Oh, dear no; she is not going to do any shopping for herself. She has all she needs for the present. I gave her some things, and she will soon be earning money for herself. No; she has gone to see about a boarding place, she told me, and she has some errands for me. I think it so much better to give her occupation just now. She is rather a restless person, and she will be much happier than she could be brooding by herself. You know, Lauretta dear, Linda is not so very companionable. She hasn't the nice, confidential way with me that I have with my sisters."

"But she isn't your sister," returned Lauretta bluntly.

"Alas, no. Dear Martin hoped we would be congenial, but you can see it is impossible. I wouldn't acknowledge this to everyone, Lauretta; but I always feel that she holds herself superior. I have seen a look sometimes that made me want to box her ears."

Lauretta kept silence a moment before she said: "The Talbots are of excellent family, Grace."

"And we are not, you mean. That is between ourselves. I am sure I try to impress everyone with the belief that we are," which was too true, "and though our grandparents may have been plain people, Lauretta, in the beginning, they did have plenty of means at the last; we have enough of their solid silver to prove that fact," and indeed Grace's display of solid silver on the sideboard at Talbot's Angles was not allowed to go unnoticed and was her most cherished possession, one of which she made much capital.

"There they go," said Lauretta, looking from the small-paned windows to see the carriage turn from the driveway into the road. "I may be wrong, but it does seem to me rather like turning Linda out of house and home, Grace, doesn't it?"

"Oh, dear, no; you are quite mistaken. I haven't a doubt but she would much rather live in town. I don't credit her with any real sentiment. She was as calm and self-possessed as possible when Martin died, while I went from one fit of hysterics into another. She can do things which would upset me completely. Oh, you needn't waste your sympathies upon Linda; it is I who am the real sufferer."

"You poor dear," murmured Lauretta. "I am glad you have decided not to spend your winters in this lonely place; it would be too much for one of your sensitive nature."

This was balm to Grace, and she cast a pathetic look at the sister, murmuring: "It is so sweet to be understood."

Meanwhile over the flat, shell road Mammy and Linda were travelling toward the town. Once in a while a thread of blue creek appeared in the distance beyond fields of farmlands, or a white house glimmered out from its setting of tall trees, the masts of a sailing vessel behind it giving one the feeling that he was looking at a floating farm, or that in some mysterious way a vessel had been tossed up far inland, so intersected was the land with little creeks and inlets.

Linda knew every step of the way; to Phebe it was less familiar, and the excitement of going up to town was an unusual one. She hugged herself in her ample shawl and directed, criticised and advised Jake the entire distance. Up through the shaded streets of the town they continued until they stopped before a gate leading to an old red house which faced the sapphire river. Here lived Miss Maria Hill.

Her cheery self came out on the porch to meet them. "Of all things, Verlinda Talbot!" she cried. "And Phebe, too. Well, this is a surprise. Come right in. You are going to stay to dinner and we will have a good old-fashioned talk." She never failed to call Linda by the quaint name which had been given to various daughters of the Talbot family for many generations. "Go right out into the kitchen, Phebe," continued Miss Ri, "and if you can put any energy into that lazy Randy's heels, I'll be thankful. When are you going to make up your mind to come and live with me, Phebe?" she asked, laughing at the never-failing joke.

But this time Phebe's answer, instead of being: "When de dead ducks eat up all de mud, Miss Ri," was: "Whenever yuh likes to have me, Miss Ri."

Miss Maria stopped short in surprise. She looked from one to another. "You don't mean it!" she cried.

"Yas'm, I means it; dat is, ef acco'din' to de ques', yu teks Miss Lindy, too."

Miss Ri turned her gaze on Linda. "What does all this mean?" she asked. "Come on in, Phebe—no, you mustn't go into the kitchen just yet; we must thrash this out first." She led the way into a cheerful living-room, against whose ancient walls stood solid pieces of shining mahogany. Time-stained pictures, one or two portraits, old engravings, a couple of silhouettes looked down at the group. "Sit right down here, Verlinda dear. There's a chair for you, Phebe. Now let us hear all about it." Miss Ri drew up a chair and