sorder of the room with a listless, irresponsible gaze. A
tall, unformed girl, with a braid of red hair hanging across her
shoulder, and ending in a heavy, lustrous curl upon the limp folds of
her blue cotton dress.

The baby had resumed a subdued but dismal proclamation of the grief from
which his mother's return had afforded him but a temporary relief, and
Mrs. Sproul elevated her thin, anxious voice coaxingly.

"Lysander's late, M'lissy, and I thought mebbe you'd milk the cow fer
'im."

"Why, yes, of course," answered the girl, with a soft, good-natured
drawl, descending the remaining steps slowly. "Where's the milk-pail,
mother?"

"On top o' the chimbly," answered the old woman tartly, pointing with
the frying-pan to a bench in the corner. "If it'd 'a' been a snake,
it'd 'a' bit you."

The young girl crossed the room, and the satellites surrounding Mrs.
Sproul's chair, with an erratic change of orbit, transferred themselves
to the newcomer. The older sister took a handkerchief from the pocket
of her coat.

"You'd best tie this around your neck, M'lissy; it's gettin' chill."

The girl accepted it carelessly, and stood in the doorway tying the bit
of faded silk about her round, white throat.

"Where's the cow, mother?"

"She's staked on the 'fileree, t'other side of the barn. If ye don't
find her when ye git there, come an' ask." The old woman drawled the
last three words sarcastically.

Melissa smiled, showing a row of teeth, not small, but white and
regular.

"Oh, if she's got away, I know where she's gone."

"Yes, I'll bet you do. Some folks has a heap of onnecessary learnin'."

There was no demand upon Melissa's supply of undervalued information.
The cow was mooing reproachfully in a cropped circle of musky alfilaria
behind the shed. The moon had risen, and rested for an instant upon the
edge of Cucamonga, like a silver ball rolling down the mountain-side.
Melissa laid her arms on the spotted heifer's back, and gazed at the
landscape dreamily. Not discontent, nor longing, nor vague, troublesome
aspirations mirrored themselves in the girl's placid face. Gentle,
ease-loving natures, that might show in fair relief against a delicate
background of luxury, become dull and lifeless in contrast with the
coarser tints of poverty. In the parlance of those about her, Melissa
was "dawdlin',"--and those about us are likely to be just, for they
speak from the righteous standpoint of results.

The moon had fl