and walked, one on either hand, to see the town with her that
evening. As they crossed the bridge they looked at each other shyly,
and then began to laugh.

"Well, I missed it the most on Sundays going all alone to mass,"
confessed Mary Dunleavy. "I 'm glad there's no one here seeing us go
over, so I am."

"'T was ourselves had bold words at the bridge, once, that we 've got
the laugh about now," explained Mrs. Connelly politely to the stranger.

MARTHA'S LADY.

I.

One day, many years ago, the old Judge Pyne house wore an unwonted look
of gayety and youthfulness. The high-fenced green garden was bright
with June flowers. Under the elms in the large shady front yard you
might see some chairs placed near together, as they often used to be
when the family were all at home and life was going on gayly with eager
talk and pleasure-making; when the elder judge, the grandfather, used
to quote that great author, Dr. Johnson, and say to his girls, "Be
brisk, be splendid, and be public."

One of the chairs had a crimson silk shawl thrown carelessly over its
straight back, and a passer-by, who looked in through the latticed gate
between the tall gate-posts with their white urns, might think that
this piece of shining East Indian color was a huge red lily that had
suddenly bloomed against the syringa bush. There were certain windows
thrown wide open that were usually shut, and their curtains were
blowing free in the light wind of a summer afternoon; it looked as if a
large household had returned to the old house to fill the prim best
rooms and find them full of cheer.

It was evident to every one in town that Miss Harriet Pyne, to use the
village phrase, had company. She was the last of her family, and was
by no means old; but being the last, and wonted to live with people
much older than herself, she had formed all the habits of a serious
elderly person. Ladies of her age, something past thirty, often wore
discreet caps in those days, especially if they were married, but being
single, Miss Harriet clung to youth in this respect, making the one
concession of keeping her waving chestnut hair as smooth and stiffly
arranged as possible. She had been the dutiful companion of her father
and mother in their latest years, all her elder brothers and sisters
having married and gone, or died and gone, out of the old house. Now
that she was left alone it seemed quite the best thing frankly to
accept the fact of age, a