and she and Carmen appointed an hour
for calling at the Ocean House. The talk went to other topics, and after
a half-hour ended in mutual good-feeling.

"What a delightful old party!" said Carmen, after he had gone. "I've a
mind to adopt him."

In a week Hollowell and Carmen were the best of friends. She called him
"Uncle Jerry," and buzzed about him, to his great delight. "The beauty of
it is," he said, "you never can tell where she will light."

Everybody knows what Newport is in August, and we need not dwell on it.
To Margaret, with its languidly moving pleasures, its well-bred scenery,
the luxury that lulled the senses into oblivion of the vulgar struggle
and anxiety which ordinarily attend life, it was little less than
paradise. To float along with Carmen, going deeper and deeper into the
shifting gayety which made the days fly without thought and with no care
for tomorrow, began to seem an admirable way of passing life. What could
one do fitter, after all, for a world hopelessly full of suffering and
poverty and discontent, than to set an example of cheerfulness and
enjoyment, and to contribute, as occasion offered, to the less fortunate?
Would it help matters to be personally anxious and miserable? To put a
large bill in the plate on Sunday, to open her purse wide for the objects
of charity and relief daily presented, was indeed a privilege and a
pleasure, and a satisfaction to the conscience which occasionally tripped
her in her rapid pace.

"I don't believe you have a bit of conscience," said Margaret to Carmen
one Sunday, as they walked home from morning service, when Margaret had
responded "extravagantly," as Carmen said, to an appeal for the mission
among the city pagans.

"I never said I had, dear. It must be the most troublesome thing you can
carry around with you. Of course I am interested in the heathen, but
charity--that is where I agree with Uncle Jerry--begins at home, and I
don't happen to know a greater heathen than I am."

"If you were as bad as you make yourself out, I wouldn't walk with you
another step."

"Well, you ask mother. She was in such a rage one day when I told Mr.
Lyon that he'd better look after Ireland than go pottering round among
the neglected children. Not that I care anything about the Irish," added
this candid person.

"I suppose you wanted to make it pleasant for Mr. Lyon?"

"No; for mother. She can't get over the idea that she is still bringing
me up. And Mr. Lyon!