ive, because he feels his loneliness. No one
understands him as I do--"

"I hate him!" gritted Evadna, in an emphatic whisper which her Aunt
Phoebe thought it wise not to seem to hear.

Phoebe settled herself comfortably for a long talk. The murmur of her
voice as she explained and comforted and advised came soothingly from
the room, with now and then an interruption while she waited for a tardy
answer to some question. Finally she rose and stood in the doorway,
looking back at a huddled figure on the bed.

"Now dry your eyes and be a good girl, and remember what you've
promised," she admonished kindly. "Aunt Phoebe didn't mean to scold you,
honey; she only wants you to feel that you belong here, and she wants
you to like her boys and have them like you. They've always wanted a
sister to pet; and Aunt Phoebe is hoping you'll not disappoint her.
You'll try; won't you, Vadnie?"

"Y--yes," murmured Vadnie meekly from the pillow. "I know you will."
Phoebe looked at her for a moment longer rather wistfully, and turned
away. "I do wish she had some spunk," she muttered complainingly, not
thinking that Evadna might hear her. "She don't take after the Ramseys
none--there wasn't anything mushy about them that I ever heard of."

"Mushy! MUSHY!" Evadna sat up and stared at nothing at all while she
repeated the word under her breath. "She wants me to be gentle--she
preached gentleness in her letters, and told how her boys need it, and
then--she calls it being MUSHY!"

She reached mechanically for her hair-brush, and fumbled in a tumbled
mass of shining, yellow hair quite as unbelievable in its way as were
her eyes--Grant had shown a faculty for observing keenly when he called
her a Christmas angel--and drew out a half-dozen hairpins, letting them
slide from her lap to the floor. "MUSHY!" she repeated, and shook down
her hair so that it framed her face and those eyes of hers. "I suppose
that's what they all say behind my back. And how can a girl be nice
WITHOUT being mushy?" She drew the brush meditatively through her
hair. "I am scared to death of Indians," she admitted, with analytical
frankness, "and tarantulas and snakes--but--MUSHY!"

Grant stood smoking in the doorway of the sitting-room, where he could
look out upon the smooth waters of the pond darkening under the shade of
the poplars and the bluff behind, when Evadna came out of her room. He
glanced across at her, saw her hesitate, as if she were meditating a
retrea