books, and the very infrequency
of his lessons stimulated me to redoubled effort, that I might surprise
him by my progress when we met again. Then there was scarcely a day that
some business did not take him past our house, or that I did not meet
him by the river-bank or at the store. Sometimes he would ask me to row
him down the stream on some errand, sometimes he would take me with him
in his rides. I was a fearless horsewoman, and Miss Hammond did not
ride. In all those meetings he was frank and kind as ever; he told me of
his plans, his annoyances, his projects. No, I had not lost my friend,
as I had feared, and when assured of this, I could do without Miss
Hammond.

And so the weeks glided into months, and the months into years, and I
was nineteen years old. Four years had passed since the morning when
George Hammond first awakened my self-esteem, first gave me the impulse
to raise myself out of my awkwardness and ignorance, to make of myself
something better than one of the worn, depressed, dispirited women I saw
around me. Had I done anything for myself? I asked. I was not educated,
I had no acquirements, so-called; but I had read, and read well, some
good and famous books, and I knew that I had made their contents my own.
I was richer for their beauties and excellences. With my self-respect
had come, too, a desire to improve my surroundings, and, as far as they
lay under my control, they had been improved. Our household was more
orderly; some little attempt at neatness and decoration was to be seen
around and in the house, and my own room, where I had full sway, was
beautiful in its rustic adornment.

My glass, too, the poor little three-cornered, paper-framed companion of
my girlhood, showed me some change. The complexion had cleared, the hair
had taken a decided brown, and the angular figure had rounded and
filled. It was hardly a week since, standing in Miss Hammond's kitchen
counting over with her servant-girl the basketful of fresh eggs which
were sent from our house every week, I had overheard Mr. Hammond say to
his sister,--

"Really, Janet Rainsford has improved so much that she is almost pretty.
Her brown hair tones so well with her quiet eyes; and as to her mouth,
it is really lovely, so finely cut, and with so much character in it."

What was it to me that Miss Hammond's cold voice answered,--

"I think you make a fool of yourself, George, and of that girl too,
going on as you do about her. She