layed for a few days. When he came Surrey looked its
best, for it was June; and though the winds were chilly, the grass was
grown and the orchard leaves were crowding off the blossoms. The woods
were vividly green. The fauns were playing there, and the sirens sang
under the sea. But I had other thoughts; the fauns and sirens were
not for me, perplexed as I was with household cares. Hepsey proposed
staying another year, but I was firm; and she went, begging Fanny to
go with her and be as a daughter. She declined; but the proposition
influenced her to be troublesome to me. She told me she was of age
now, and that no person had a right to control her. At present she was
useful where she was, and might remain.

"Will you have wages?" I asked her.

"That is Mr. Morgeson's business."

My anger would have pleased her, so I concealed it.

"Your ability, Fanny, is better than your disposition. Me,--you do
not suit at all; but it is certain that father depends on you for his
small comforts, and Veronica likes you. I wish you would stay."

She placed her arms akimbo.

"I should like to find you out, exactly. I can't. I never could find
out your mother; all the rest of you are as clear as daylight." And
she snapped her fingers as if 'the rest' were between them.

"You lack faith."

"You believe that this is a beautiful world, don't you? I hate it. I
should think _you_ had reason, too, for hating it. Pray what have you
got?"

"An ungrateful imp that was bequeathed to me."

She saw father in the garden beckoning me. "He wants you. I do _not_
hate the world always," she added, with her eyes fixed on him.

I was disposed to trouble the still waters of our domestic life with
theories. Our ways were too mechanical. The old-fashioned asceticism
which considered air, sleep, food, as mere necessities was stupid. But
I had no assistance; Veronica thought that her share of my plans must
consist of a diligent notice of all that I did, which she gave, and
then went to her own life, kept sacredly apart. Fanny laughed in her
sleeve and took another side--the practical, and shone in it, becoming
in fact the true manager and worker, while I played. Aunt Merce was
helpless. She neglected her former cares; and father was, what he
always had been at home,--heedless and indifferent.

One morning we stood on the landing stair--Ben, Veronica, and
myself--looking from the window. A silver mist so thinly wrapped the
orchard that the wet, shi