le of the highest exercise of
this quality, although she had not exercised it in my presence. She
looked, in her veil and her black street dress, as aloof, and as coldly
scornful of the present day, as she had seemed when sitting over her
embroidery; but it was not of 1818, or even 1840, that she had been
talking just now: it was this morning that somebody was bruised,
somebody was in bed.

The handsome lady acknowledged my salutation completely, but not
encouragingly, and then, on the threshold, exchanged these parting
sentences with the girl behind the counter:--

"They will have to shake hands. He was not very willing, but he listened
to me. Of course, the chastisement was right--but it does not affect my
opinion of his keeping on with the position."

"No, indeed, Aunt Josephine!" the girl agreed. "I wish he wouldn't. Did
you say it was his right eye?"

"His left." Miss Josephine St. Michael inclined her head once more to me
and went out of the Exchange. I retired to my usual table, and the
girl read in my manner, quite correctly, the feelings which I had not
supposed I had allowed to be evident. She said:--

"Aunt Josephine always makes strangers think she's displeased with
them."

I replied like the young ass which I constantly tell myself I have
ceased to be: "Oh, displeasure is as much notice as one is entitled to
from Miss St. Michael."

The girl laughed with her delightful sweet mockery.

"I declare, you're huffed! Now don't tell me you're not. But you mustn't
be. When you know her, you'll know that that awful manner means Aunt
Josephine is just being shy. Why, even I'm not afraid of her George
Washington glances any more!"

"Very well," I laughed, "I'll try to have your courage." Over my
chocolate and sandwiches I sat in curiosity discreditable, but natural.
Who was in bed--who would have to shake hands? And why had they stopped
talking when I came in? Of course, I found myself hoping that John
Mayrant had put the owner of the Hermana in bed at the slight cost of
a bruise above his left eye. I wondered if the cake was again
countermanded, and I started upon that line. "I think I'll have to-day,
if you please, another slice of that Lady Baltimore." And I made ready
for another verbal skirmish.

"I'm so sorry! It's a little stale to-day. You can have the last slice,
if you wish."

"Thank you, I will." She brought it. "It's not so very stale," I said.
"How long since it has been made?"

"Oh, it's