LITMIR.BIZ

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High wall, thick wall, window iron-barred;

       Stone-paved, stone-pent little prison yard—

       Young hearts weary of monotony and pain,

       Young hearts weary of reiterant refrain:

       "They say—they do—what will people think?"

      At the two front windows of their rather crowded little parlor sat Miss Rebecca and Miss Josie Foote, Miss Sallie being out on a foraging expedition—marketing, as it were, among their neighbors to collect fresh food for thought.

      A tall, slender girl in brown passed on the opposite walk.

      "I should think Vivian Lane would get tired of wearing brown," said Miss Rebecca.

      "I don't know why she should," her sister promptly protested, "it's a good enough wearing color, and becoming to her."

      "She could afford to have more variety," said Miss Rebecca. "The Lanes are mean enough about some things, but I know they'd like to have her dress better. She'll never get married in the world."

      "I don't know why not. She's only twenty-five—and good-looking."

      "Good-looking! That's not everything. Plenty of girls marry that are not good-looking—and plenty of good-looking girls stay single."

      "Plenty of homely ones, too. Rebecca," said Miss Josie, with meaning. Miss Rebecca certainly was not handsome. "Going to the library, of course!" she pursued presently. "That girl reads all the time."

      "So does her grandmother. I see her going and coming from that library every day almost."

      "Oh, well—she reads stories and things like that. Sallie goes pretty often and she notices. We use that library enough, goodness knows, but they are there every day. Vivian Lane reads the queerest things—doctor's books and works on pedagoggy."

      "Godgy," said Miss Rebecca, "not goggy." And as her sister ignored this correction, she continued: "They might as well have let her go to college when she was so set on it."

      "College! I don't believe she'd have learned as much in any college, from what I hear of 'em, as she has in all this time at home." The Foote girls had never entertained a high opinion of extensive culture.

      "I don't see any use in a girl's studying so much," said Miss Rebecca with decision.

      "Nor I," agreed Miss Josie. "Men don't like learned women."

      "They don't seem to always like those that aren't learned, either," remarked Miss Rebecca with a pleasant sense of retribution for that remark about "homely ones."

      The tall girl in brown had seen the two faces at the windows opposite, and had held her shoulders a little straighter as she turned the corner.

      "Nine years this Summer since Morton Elder went West," murmured Miss Josie, reminiscently. "I shouldn't wonder if Vivian had stayed single on his account."

      "Nonsense!" her sister answered sharply. "She's not that kind. She's not popular with men, that's all. She's too intellectual."

      "She ought to be in the library instead of Sue Elder," Miss Rebecca suggested. "She's far more competent. Sue's a feather-headed little thing."

      "She seems to give satisfaction so far. If the trustees are pleased with her, there's no reason for you to complain that I see," said Miss Rebecca with decision.

      Vivian Lane waited at the library desk with an armful of books to take home. She had her card, her mother's and her father's—all utilized. Her grandmother kept her own card—and her own counsel.

      The pretty assistant librarian, withdrawing herself with some emphasis from the unnecessary questions of a too gallant old gentleman, came to attend her.

      "You have got a load," she said, scribbling complex figures with one end of her hammer-headed pencil, and stamping violet dates with the other. She whisked out the pale blue slips from the lid pockets, dropped them into their proper openings in the desk and inserted the cards in their stead with delicate precision.

      "Can't you wait a bit and go home with me?" she asked. "I'll help you carry them."

      "No, thanks. I'm not going right home."

      "You're going to see your Saint—I know!" said Miss Susie, tossing her bright head. "I'm jealous, and you know it."

      "Don't be a goose, Susie! You know you're my very best friend, but—she's different."

      "I should think she was different!" Susie sharply agreed. "And you've been 'different' ever since she came."

      "I hope so," said Vivian gravely. "Mrs. St. Cloud brings out one's very best and highest. I wish you liked her better, Susie."

      "I like you," Susie answered. "You bring out my 'best and highest'—if I've got any. She don't. She's like a lovely, faint, bright—bubble! I want to prick it!"

      Vivian smiled down upon her.

      "You bad little mouse!" she said. "Come, give me the books."

      "Leave them with me, and I'll bring them in the car." Susie looked anxious to make amends for her bit of blasphemy.

      "All right, dear. Thank you. I'll be home by that time, probably."

      In the street she stopped before a little shop where papers and magazines were sold.

      "I believe Father'd like the new Centurion," she said to herself, and got it for him, chatting a little with the one-armed man who kept the place. She stopped again at a small florist's and bought a little bag of bulbs.

      "Your mother's forgotten about those, I guess," said Mrs. Crothers, the florist's wife, "but they'll do just as well now. Lucky you thought of them before it got too late in the season. Bennie was awfully pleased with that red and blue pencil you gave him, Miss Lane."

      Vivian walked on. A child ran out suddenly from a gate and seized upon her.

      "Aren't you coming in to see me—ever?" she demanded.

      Vivian stooped and kissed her.

      "Yes, dear, but not to-night. How's that dear baby getting on?"

      "She's better," said the little girl. "Mother said thank you—lots of times. Wait a minute—"

      The child fumbled in Vivian's coat pocket with a mischievous upward glance, fished out a handful of peanuts, and ran up the path laughing while the tall girl smiled down upon her lovingly.

      A long-legged boy was lounging along the wet sidewalk. Vivian caught up with him and he joined her with eagerness.

      "Good evening, Miss Lane. Say—are you coming to the club to-morrow night?"

      She smiled cordially.

      "Of course I am, Johnny. I wouldn't disappoint my boys for anything—nor myself, either."

      They walked on together chatting until, at the minister's house, she bade him a cheery "good-night."

      Mrs. St. Cloud was at the window pensively watching the western sky. She saw the girl coming and let her in with a tender, radiant smile—a lovely being in a most unlovely room.

      There was a chill refinement above subdued confusion in that Cambridge-Bainville parlor, where the higher culture of the second Mrs. Williams, superimposed upon the lower culture of the first, as that upon the varying tastes of a combined ancestry, made the place somehow suggestive of excavations at Abydos.

      It was much the kind of parlor Vivian had been accustomed to from childhood, but Mrs. St. Cloud was of a type quite new to her. Clothed in soft, clinging fabrics, always with a misty, veiled effect to them, wearing pale amber, large, dull stones of uncertain shapes, and slender chains that glittered here and there among her scarfs and laces, sinking gracefully among deep cushions, even able to sink gracefully into a common Bainville chair—this beautiful woman had captured the girl's imagination

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