h
that Bride Blush, Willy; that young scamp of a Geoffrey Strong gave it
to me, and I suppose I shall have to tend it the rest of my days. Humph!
pity you didn't know him; he might have done something for that cough.
He got the girl he wanted, but more often they don't. Look at James
Stedman! and there's Homer Hollopeter has been in love with Mary Ashton
ever since he was in petticoats."

"With Mary--do you mean my mother?" said Jaquith, looking up.

"She wasn't your mother when he began!" said the old lady, tartly. "He
couldn't foresee that she was going to be, could he? If he had he might
have asked your permission. She preferred George Jaquith, naturally.
Women mostly prefer a handsome scamp. Not that Homer ever looked like
anything but a sheep. Then there was Lily Bent--"

She broke off suddenly. "You're tying that all crooked, Will Jaquith.
I'll come and do it myself if you can't do better than that."

"I'll have it right in a moment, Mrs. Tree. You were saying--something
about Lily Bent?"

"There are half a dozen lilies bent almost double!" Mrs. Tree declared,
peevishly. "Careless! I paid five dollars for that Golden Lily, young
man, and you handle it as if it were a yellow turnip."

"Mrs. Tree!"

"Well, what is it? It's time for me to have my nap, I expect."

"Mrs. Tree,"--the young man's voice was earnest and pleading,--"I
brought you a letter from Lily Bent this morning. I have been waiting--I
want to hear something about her. I know she has been an angel of
tenderness and goodness to my mother ever since--why does she stay away
so long?"

"Because she's having a good time, I suppose," said Mrs. Tree, dryly.
"She's been tied close enough these last three years, what with her
grandmother and--one thing and another. The old woman's dead now, and
small loss. Everybody's dead, I believe, except me and a parcel of silly
children. I forget what you said became of that--of your wife after she
left you."

"She died," said Jaquith, abstractedly. "Didn't I tell you? They went
South, and she took yellow fever. It was only a month after--"

"No, you did not!" cried Mrs. Tree, sitting bolt upright. "You never
told me a word, Willy Jaquith. What Providence was thinking of when it
made this generation, passes me to conceive. If I couldn't make a better
one out of fish-glue and calico, I'd give up. Bah! I've no patience with
you."

She struck her stick sharply on the floor, and her little hands
trembled.

"I