affect their rigid line.

"She's missed you uncommon," Celestine confided to Margaret, when she
returned; "_nothin's_ ben right. 'Most every mornin' when she was all
dressed I sez to her, 'Mrs. Rutherford,' sez I, 'what's the preposition
for now?' And there never warn't any preposition, or, ruther, there was
so many we couldn't begin to manage 'em! Mr. Evert--he's ben down to the
Thornes' a good deal, you know, an' Dr. Kirby--_he_ hasn't ben in at
all. Even Mrs. Carew's ben gone. An' so she's rather petered out. Glad
you're back, Miss Margaret; dear me suz! yes. A person needn't be a
murderer to make a house almighty uncomfortable by just sheer
grumpiness. But she'll pick up now."

Celestine had been right when she said that the lady's mental condition
would improve now that her niece had returned. Gradually, as Margaret's
touch on the helm brought the household back into the atmosphere she
loved, the atmosphere of few questions and no suggestions, suggestions
as to what she had "better" do (Mrs. Rutherford hated suggestions as to
what she had "better" do), of all her small customs silently furthered,
her little wishes remembered without the trouble of having to express
them, her remarks listened to and answered, and conversation (when she
wished for conversation) kept up--all this so quietly done that she
could with ease ignore that it was anything especial to do, maintain the
position that it was but the usual way of living, that anything else
would have been unusual--gradually, as this congenial atmosphere
re-established itself, Mrs. Rutherford recovered her geniality, that
geniality which had been so much admired. Her majestic remarks as to the
faults of Gracias and everything in Gracias became fewer, the
under-note of cold displeasure in her voice died away; her profile grew
flexible and personal again, it was less like that of a Roman matron in
a triumphal procession--a procession which has been through a good deal
of wind and dust.

This happy revival of placidity at the eyrie (to which possibly the
reappearance of Dr. Kirby had added something) was sharply broken one
morning by bad news from East Angels. Mrs. Thorne was worse--"sinking"
was the term used in the note which Betty Carew had hastily scribbled;
she was anxious to see Mrs. Harold.

It had come, then, the end, and much sooner than even she herself had
expected. She had suffered severely for twenty-four hours; the suffering
was over now, but she ha