LITMIR.BIZ

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continued to stand before her cynosure long enough to disarm possible suspicion, and then backed thoughtfully away until she reached a bench upon which she sank, still with eyes upon the picture.

      Mrs. Ballard from the next room observed her trance.

      "She is waking up. Her eyes are opening, bless her heart," she thought. "Constant dropping does wear the stone."

      Eliza would have paraphrased the proverb and declared that constant dropping saves the life.

      From this day on she professed, and triumphantly acted upon, an appreciation for certain pictures; and Mrs. Ballard marvelled with pride at the catholicity of her taste; for such serpentine wisdom did Eliza display in passing, unseeing, many an inviting bench, that never, to their last pilgrimage to Mrs. Ballard's mecca, did the latter suspect the source of her companion's modest enthusiasm.

      "Poor thing," thought Eliza during these periods of rest; "it's a sin and a shame that she hasn't got anybody worthy to come with her. If those relatives of hers were, any of 'em, fit to live, one of 'em would bring her here sometimes. The poor dear, as long as she hasn't a soul but an ignorant country body like me to sympathize with her, I've got to do my best; and really if I set a spell once in a while, I'll have more sprawl and can seem to enjoy it more. It's awful hard when you can't think of anything but your joints! I'm younger'n she is, and I'm ashamed o' gettin' so tuckered; but she's got some kind o' wings that seem to lift her along."

      Mrs. Ballard, from the next room, caught Eliza's eye, smiled, and nodded, well pleased. So the era of peace ensued; and when Miss Brewster caught sight from a street car of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, she was able to regard it without a frown.

       CHAPTER III

      MRS. FABIAN'S VISIT

      Eliza was not obliged to give up the apartment until the end of the month. Hence her drifting from day to day, and Pluto's naps in the lap of luxury.

      All her energy and systematic habits were in a state of suspension. Her clocks ran down. The watch in the tiny satin slipper beside her bed alone ticked the minutes away, and when Eliza wound it her eyes were too wet to see the time. Night fell and she went to bed. Morning dawned and she arose. She drank tea, but it was too much trouble to eat.

      One day the bell rang. At first she determined not to answer it. Then second thought came to her. What was she waiting here for except to answer the bell? Was her next duty not to introduce the usurper into his kingdom – to give into his desecrating hands those objects, – easel, palette, brushes, paints, – hallowed by her dear one's use? At the sound of a knock she hastened to fling open the door. Mrs. Fabian, elegantly gowned and furred, stood before her.

      Eliza gazed at this apparition dumb.

      "Why, Eliza Brewster," exclaimed the visitor with concern, "I scarcely knew you." After the mutual gaze of astonishment the caller moved in with her air of stately assurance, and Eliza followed her perforce into the living-room. Here Mrs. Fabian swiftly examined the possibilities of the scanty chairs, then seated herself in the largest.

      "You have been ill, too, Eliza? You look like a ghost!"

      The gaunt woman in the alpaca dress, so filled with resentment that she begrudged her own tears because they informed this "relative" of her grief, stood in silence with a beating heart.

      "Sit down, you poor creature," went on Mrs. Fabian, unsuspecting hidden fires.

      They burned higher at the tone of patronage, but Eliza, weakened from mourning and lack of food, felt her knees trembling and sank into the nearest chair.

      Mrs. Fabian, genuinely touched by the ravages she saw, broke the silence that followed.

      "I was greatly surprised and shocked to hear of Aunt Mary's sudden going."

      She began to feel uncomfortable under the set gaze of Eliza's swollen eyes.

      "I suppose you sent to my house at once, and found that Mr. Fabian and I were in the far West."

      "No, I didn't think of sending," returned Eliza.

      "You should have done so. Surely there was no one nearer to Aunt Mary than I."

      "It was in the paper," said Eliza dully.

      "Had I been here I should, of course, have taken charge of the funeral."

      The pale eyes emitted a curious light.

      "No, you wouldn't, Mrs. Fabian," was the quiet reply.

      "Why do you say that?"

      "Because the time for you to have done something for Mrs. Ballard was while she was alive."

      Eliza was too spent physically to speak other than softly, but her words brought the amazed color to her visitor's face.

      "You are presuming," Mrs. Fabian said, after a moment. "What do you know about it? I suppose Aunt Mary did not think it worth while to tell you all the things I did for her."

      "No," agreed Eliza, "she never said a word about the times you came with your automobile to take her riding; nor the picture exhibitions you took her to see, or the way you had her to dinner Thanksgivin' time and other times, or how you had her to spend part o' the summer with you at the island, or – "

      "Eliza Brewster, what does this mean!" Mrs. Fabian's eyes were dilated. "Aunt Mary was not related to my husband or to his children. I never expected him to marry my family."

      Miss Brewster's gaze was fixed upon the speaker with pale scorn, but the latter continued with what she endeavored to make a dignified defence. "I always sent Aunt Mary a present at Christmas."

      "Yes," interrupted Eliza. "Last season 'twas a paper-cutter. You gave her cuts enough without that."

      "And I called upon her at intervals," continued the visitor in a heightened tone to drown the small voice.

      "Intervals of a year," said Eliza.

      Mrs. Fabian started to rise, but bethought herself, and sank back.

      "You are impertinent," she said coldly. "A person in your position cannot understand the duties of one in mine. There can be no discussion between you and me." The speaker stirred in her chair and collected herself. "I – and every one of Aunt Mary's relatives – appreciate your faithful service to her, and thank you for it."

      "Don't you dare!" ejaculated Eliza, with such sudden belligerency that Mrs. Fabian started.

      "You're almost crazed with fatigue and grief, poor creature," she said at last. "I can see that you are scarcely responsible for what you say to-day. You must take a long rest. Shall you go home to the island or take another place in town? I can find you one."

      Mrs. Fabian felt the superiority of her own self-control as she made this kind offer; besides, in these troublous days with servants, steady, reliable Eliza, with a sure touch in cookery, was not to be despised. The visitor accompanied her offer with a soothing attempt at a smile.

      Eliza had relapsed into dullness. "I won't trouble you," she said.

      "It would not be any trouble," was the magnanimous reply. "Just let me know any time when you would like a reference, Eliza. It will give me pleasure to reward your faithfulness."

      Mrs. Fabian loved approval quite as much as she did admiration. She would feel much more comfortable to win that of even this uncompromising, cranky individual, so lined with the signs of suffering. As Eliza Brewster was a native of the island where Mrs. Fabian had resorted from the days of her girlhood, she had a very slight but old acquaintance with this woman. As she glanced at the thin hair, now fast turning grey, the sunken eyes and cheeks, and the bony, roughened hands, she shuddered beneath her ermine-lined sables, to remember that she and Eliza Brewster were about the same age. She passed a white-gloved hand over the firm contour of her smooth cheek as if to make sure of its firmness. "I believe it was I who recommended you to Aunt Mary in the first place, long ago," she added.

      "That's one o' your mistakes," said Eliza drily.

      "On the contrary," returned Mrs. Fabian graciously. She was determined to warm this forlorn specimen of New England frigidity into something humanly companionable, else how was she going to attain

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