Prudence Pardon, the dressmaker.

But when one looked at Vesta Blyth's face, one was not apt to think
about her clothes; one rather thought, what a pity one must look away
from her presently! At least, that was what Geoffrey Strong used to say,
a young man who loved Miss Vesta, and who was now gone away with his
young wife, leaving sore hearts behind.

Direxia Hawkes came out on the porch to meet the visitor, closing the
door behind her for an instant.

"I'm terrible glad you've come," she said. "She's lookin' for you, too,
I expect, though she won't say a word. There! she's fairly rusted with
grief. It'll do her good to have somebody new to chaw on; she's been
chawin' on me till she's tired, and she's welcome to."

"Yes, Direxia, I know; you are most faithful and patient," said Miss
Vesta, gently. "You know we all appreciate it, don't you, my good
Direxia? I have brought a little sweetbread for Aunt Marcia's supper.
Diploma cooked it the way she likes it, with a little cream, and just a
spoonful of white wine. There! now I will go in. Thank you, Direxia."

"Dear Aunt Marcia," the little lady said as she entered the room, "how
do you do to-day? You are looking so well!"

"I've got the plague," announced Mrs. Tree, with deadly quiet.

"Dearest Aunt Marcia! what can you mean? The plague! Surely you must
have mistaken the symptoms. That terrible disease is happily, I think,
restricted to--"

"I've got twenty plagues!" exclaimed the old lady. "First there's
Direxia Hawkes, who torments my life out all day long; and then you,
Vesta, who might know better, coming every day and asking how I am. How
should I be? Have you ever known me to be anything but perfectly well
since you were born?"

"No, dear Aunt Marcia, I am thankful to say I have not. It is such a
singular blessing, that you have this wonderful health."

"Well, then, why can't you let my health alone? When it fails, I'll let
you know."

"Yes, dear Aunt Marcia, I will try."

"Bah!" said Mrs. Tree. "You are a good girl, Vesta, but you would
exasperate a saint. I am not a saint."

Miss Vesta, too polite to assent to this statement, and too truthful to
contradict it, gazed mildly at her aunt, and was silent.

Mrs. Tree, after five minutes of vengeful knitting, rolled up her work
deliberately, stabbed it through with the needles, and tossed it across
the room.

"Well!" she said, "have you anything else to say, Vesta? I am cross, but
I am not hungry, and