. Mrs. Joy swept through.

"Come, Miss Arden," she called back over her shoulder.

Candace could do nothing but look as apologetic as she felt. "I'm so
sorry," she murmured, as she passed Miss Colishaw.

"You haven't done anything. It's she who ought to be sorry," returned
Miss Colishaw, and banged the door behind her as she passed through.

"What a horrid old person!" said Mrs. Joy, who looked heated and vexed.
"I never met any one so impertinent. And such a fool, too! Why, she
takes in sewing, I am told, or makes cake,--some of those things. She's
as poor as Job's turkey; yet there she sits, with those valuable things
absolutely wasting in her poky old house, and refuses to sell them. I
wish I had spoken more strongly to her! I declare, I've a good mind to
go back and do it now. It is such perfect folly. She really ought to be
reasoned out of it."

"Oh, I wouldn't," urged Candace,--"I wouldn't go back. She was _so_
angry. I don't know what she would say if you did."

"My dear, I don't care a red cent what she says. All the old women on
the Point can't frighten _me_," declared Mrs. Joy. She reflected a
little; then she gave up her intention.

"After all, it isn't worth the trouble. She's just that sort of
obstinate old creature who will never listen to a word of advice. I
knew, the moment I looked at her, that nothing I could say would do any
good. Generally I can turn that kind of person round my finger. Why,
you'd be surprised if I told you of the bargains I have got out of old
garrets over on Conanicut and down the Island. But, really and truly,
I'm a little tired of it; and I never did care much for such old duds,
except that other people have them and it is the thing to have them. I'd
rather go to Howard's any day, and get a lot of nice French china.
Howard has such exquisite things always."

So the carriage was ordered to Coddington's Cove; and as they rolled
smoothly past the Maitland Woods, neither Mrs. Joy nor Candace guessed
that at that moment Miss Colishaw was sitting in her little back-room,
with the old yeast-pitcher in her lap, crying as if her heart would
break.

"It's bad enough to be old and poor and alone in the world," she sobbed
to herself, "without having fine stuck-up folks coming right in to sauce
you out of your senses." She wiped her eyes, and looked for a minute at
the pitcher.

"Betsey Colishaw, you're a fool!" she remarked aloud. "You might have
kept your temper. The woman didn'