ere in love with her. She was all the time wondering if
Wollaston would possibly come in, and in lieu of him, she played off
her innocent graces with no reserve upon his mother. Wollaston did
not come in. He had gone to the city, but when he came home his
mother told him of the call.

"Those Edgham girls who used to live in Edgham, the one who teaches
in your school, and her sister, called this afternoon," said she.

"Did they?" responded Wollaston. He turned a page of the evening
paper. It was after dinner, and the mother and son were sitting in a
tiny room off the parlor, from which it was separated by some eastern
portieres. There was a fire on the hearth. The two windows, which
were close together, were filled up with red and white geraniums.
There was a red rug, and the walls were lined with books. Outside it
had begun to snow, and the flakes drifted past the windows filled
with red and white blossoms like a silvery veil of the storm.

"Yes," said Mrs. Lee. Then she added, with a keen although covert
glance at her son: "I like the younger sister."

"She is considered quite a beauty, I believe," said Wollaston.

"Quite a beauty; she is a perfect beauty," said his mother with
emphasis. "It seemed to me I never had seen such a perfectly
beautiful, sweet girl. I declare, I actually wanted to take her in my
arms. Anybody could live with that girl. As for her sister, I don't
like her at all."

Mrs. Lee was very like her son. She had the same square jaw and
handsome face, which had little of the truly feminine in it. Her
clear blue eyes surveyed every new person with whom she came in
contact in her new dwelling place, with impartial and pitiless
scrutiny. When she liked people she said so. When she did not she
also said so, and, as far as she could, let them alone. When she
spoke now, she looked as if Maria's face was actually before her. She
did not frown, but her expression was one of complete hostility and
unsparing judgment.

"Why don't you like her?" asked her son, with his eyes upon his paper.

"Why don't I like her? She is New England to the backbone, and one
who is New England to the backbone is insufferable. She is stiff and
set in her ways. She would go to the stake for a fad, or send her
nearest and dearest there."

"She is a very good teacher, and the pupils like her," said
Wollaston. He kept his voice quite steady.

"She may be a very good teacher," said his mother. "I dare say she
is. I can't im