W

I

HEN William Rives and Lydia Sampson quarrelled and broke their engagement, Old Chester said that they were lucky to fall out two weeks before their wedding-day, instead of two weeks after it. Of course, Old Chester said many other things: it said it had always known they could never get along; William, who had very little money, was careful and thrifty, as every young man ought to be; Lydia, who was fairly well off, was lavish and no housekeeper. "What could you expect?" demanded Old Chester. Old Chester never knew exactly what the trouble between them had been, for they kept their own counsel; but it had its suspicions:-it was something about William's father's will. By some legal quibble the Orphan's Court awarded to William a piece of property which everybody knew old Mr. Rives supposed he had left to his daughter Amanda. Lydia thought (at least Old Chester thought she thought) that William would, as a matter of course, at once turn the field over to his sister. But William did no such thing. And, after all, why should he? the field was his; the Law allowed it; the court awarded it. Why should he present a field to Amanda? Old Chester said this thoughtfully, looking at William with a sort of respectful regret. Very likely Lydia's regret was not respectful. Lydia was always so outspoken! However, it was all surmise.

face; for of course her obstinacy made the trouble-and a young female ought not to have opinions on such matters, said Old Chester; legal affairs should be left to the gentlemen. In fact, Old Chester said every possible thing for and against them both; but gradually, as years passed, conflicting opinions settled down to the "poor Lydia " belief.

This was, probably, for two reasons: first, because William had never seen fit to come back to Old Chester,— and that, quite apart from his conduct to his lady-love, was a reason for distrust. And secondly, Lydia had, somehow, become Old Chester's one really poor person-that is, in a genteel walk of life. After the crumbling of the Sampson fortune, Old Chester had to plan for Lydia, and take care of her, and give her its "plain sewing "; so, naturally, William was reprobated. Besides, she may have quarrelled and broken her engagement two weeks before the day set for her wedding, but all these years afterward she had been faithful to the memory of Love! Old Chester knew this, for the simple reason that Miss Lydia, during all these years, had kept in her sitting-room a picture of William Rives, adorned with a sprig of box; furthermore, it knew (Heaven knows how!) that she kissed this slender, tight-waisted picture every night before she went to bed. Of course Old Chester softened. Lydia may have broken her engagement and all that, but she kept his picture, and she kissed it every night! "But he ought to be ashamed of himself," said Old Chester,-" that is, if he is alive?" Then it added, reflectively, that he must be dead, for he had never returned to Old Chester. Yet, as time went on, people forgot even to disapprove of William; they had enough to do to take care of poor Lydia: " for she is certainly very poor-and very peculiar!" said Old Chester, sighing.

"Peculiar!" said Martha King; "I

call it something worse than peculiar to spend money that ought to go towards rent, on a present for Rachel King's Anna. She gave that child a picturebook;-I'm sure I can't afford to go round giving children picture-books! I told her so, flatly and frankly. And then, it was so trying, because, right on top of my scolding, she gave me a present! A giftcup. I didn't want it;-I could have shaken her," Mrs. King ended, helplessly. It was not only Martha whose patience was tried by Miss Lydia; the experience was common to all Old Chester. Even Dr. Lavendar had felt the human impulse to shake her. When he had, very delicately, asked, "as an old friend, the privilege of assisting her," it was exasperating to have a lamp-shade, made of six porcelain intaglios set in a tin frame, come to him the next day, with the "respectful compliments of L. S." But somehow, when, beaming at him from under her shabby bonnet, Miss Lydia had asked him if he liked that preposterous shade, he could not speak his mind, at least to her. He spoke it mildly to Mrs. Barkley. "We must restrain her," he said; "she brought me $2 for Zenana Missions yesterday."

"What did you do?" Mrs. Barkley said, sympathetically.

"I made her take it back. I pointed out that her first duty was to her landlord."

"Her landlord has some duties to her," Mrs. Barkley said, angrily. "The stairs are just crumbling to pieces; and that chimney is dreadful! She says that Davis said the flue would have to be rebuilt; and maybe the whole chimney. He couldn't be sure about that, but he thought it probable. He said it would cost $100 to put all the things in repair, -floor and roof and everything. But he would do it for $85, considering. thinks the flue has broken down inside somehow; she might burn up some night! And then," said Mrs. Barkley, in a deep bass, "how would that Smith person feel?" "He says," Dr. Lavendar explained, "that by the terms of the lease the tenant is to make repairs."

He

Mrs. Barkley snorted. "And how is poor Lydia to make repairs? She hasn't two cents to bless herself with. I told him so!"

Mrs. Barkley's face grew very red at the recollection of her interview with Mr. Smith; (he was one of the new Smiths, of course). "I don't mix philanthropy and business," he had said; "the lease says the tenant shall make repairs. And besides, I do not wish to be more attractive than I am. With that chimney, some other landlord may win her affections. Without it, she will never desert Mr. Micawber."

"If you will allow me to say so, sir," said Mrs. Barkley, "we do not in Old Chester consider it delicate to refer to the affections of an unmarried female." Upon which Mr. Smith laughed immoderately; (none of the new people had any manners).

"So there is no use asking him to do anything," Mrs. Barkley told Dr. Lavendar.

"The only thing I can think of," the old minister said, "is that we all join together and give her the price Davis named, as a present."

"Eighty-five dollars!" Mrs. Barkley exclaimed, startled; "that's a good deal of money-"

"Well, yes; it is. But something has got to be done."

"And to take up a collection for Lydia! it's-charity."

"It isn't taking up a collection," Dr. Lavendar protested, stoutly. "And it isn't charity. Miss Lydia's friends have a right to make her a present, if they feel like it."

Mrs. Barkley agreed, doubtfully.

"Mrs. Dale would contribute, I'm sure," said Dr. Lavendar. "And perhaps the Miss Ferrises."

"I wouldn't like to ask them."

"Don't ask 'em. Offer them the chance."

"No," Mrs. Barkley insisted; "they've no right. They are not really her friends. Lydia doesn't call them by their first names." But she went away very much encouraged, and full of this project of a present for poor Lydia,-who, happily, had no idea that she was "poor Lydia. She was not poor to herself (except, of course, in purse; which is a small matter). She lived in a shabby and dilapidated cottage at the Smith gates, and every month squeezed out a few dollars rent to Mr. Smith; she was sorry for the

Smiths, for they were New people; but she always spoke kindly to them, for she never looked down on anybody. So, as far as position went, she was not "poor." She had no relations living, but she called all Old Chester of her generation by its first name; so, as to friendship, there was nothing " poor" about her. And most of all, she was not "poor," but very rich, in her capacity for interest.

Now, no one who has an interest is poor. And Miss Lydia had a hundred interests! A hundred? She had as many interests as there were people in the world, or joys or sorrows in Old Chester; so she was really very rich. . . . Of course, there are different degrees of this sort of wealth. There are folk who have to manufacture their interests; with deliberation they are philanthropic, or artistic, or intellectual, or even, if hard put to it, they are amused. Such persons may be said to be in fairly comfortable circumstances, although they live anxiously and rather meagrely, because they know well that when interest gives out they are practically without the means to support life. Below this manufacturing class come the really destitute; the poor creatures who do not care vitally for anything, and who are without the spiritual muscle to manufacture an interest. These pathetic folk are occasionally made self-supporting by a catastrophe, grief or even merely some uncomfortable surgery in regard to their bank account may give them a poor kind of interest; but too often they exist miserably, sometimes, with every wish gratified, helplessly poor. Above the manufacturing class comes the aristocracy to which Miss Lydia Sampson belonged, the class which is positively rolling in wealth! Every morning these favored creatures arise with a zest for living: you hear them singing before breakfast; at the table they are full of eager questions: Is it going to rain? No; it is a fair day; delightful!-for it might have rained. And the sun will bring up the crocuses. And this was the day a neighbor was to go to town; will she go? When will she come back? How pleasant that the day is pleasant! And it will be good for the sick people, too. And the moment the eager, simple mind turns to its fellows, sick or well, the field

of interest widens to the sky-line of souls. To sorrow in the sorrows of Tom and Dick and Harry and their wives, to rejoice in their joys,-what is better than that? And then, all one's own affairs are so vital: the record of the range of the thermometer, the question of turning or not turning an alpaca skirt, the working out of a game of solitaire-these things are absorbing experiences.

No wonder we who are poor, or even we who work hard at philanthropy, or art, or responsibility to manufacture our little interests,-no wonder we envy such sky-blue natures! Certainly there were persons in Old Chester who envied Miss Lydia; at least they envied her her unfailing joyousness; but they never envied her her empty purse. Which was like envying a rose its color, but despising the earth from which by some divine chemistry the color came.

Miss Lydia's eyes might smart from the smoke puffing out into her room, but she was able to laugh at the sight of her bleared visage in the narrow mirror over the mantel. Nor did the fact that the mirror was mottled and misty with age, the frame tarnished almost to blackness, cause her the slightest pang. What difference does it make in this world of life and death and joy and sorrow, if things are shabby? The fact is, the secret of happiness is the sense of proportion; eliminate, by means of that sense, trouble about the unimportant, and we would all be considerably happier than kings. Miss Lydia possessed this heavenborn sense, as well as the boundless wealth of interest (for to him that hath shall be given). "I don't want to brag," she used to say, "but I've got my health and my friends; so what on earth more do I want?" And one hesitated to point out a little thing like a shabby mirror, or even a smoky chimney. When the chimney smoked, Miss Lydia merely took her rocking-chair and her sewing out into a small room that served as a kitchen,and then what difference did the smoking make?

And as it turned out, one shadowy April day, it was the best thing she could have done, because, when Dr. Lavendar dropped in to see her, she could make him a cup of tea at once, without having to leave him alone. She was a little bus

it down on her knees and warmed both hands; and smiled.

II

When Mrs. Barkley heard the news of the wanderer's return, she hurried to Dr. Lavendar's study. "Do you suppose we need go on with the present?" she demanded, excitedly.

"I

"Why not?" said Dr. Lavendar. Mrs. Barkley looked conscious. only thought, perhaps maybe - Mr. Rives--"

"William Rives's presence in Old Chester won't improve draughts, will it?" Dr. Lavendar said, crossly. And that was all she could get out of him.

Meantime, Old Chester began to kill the fatted calf. Mr. Rives liked fatted calves; and, furthermore, he had prudently arranged with Van Horne at the tavern for a cash credit for each meal at which he was not present. "For why," he had said, reasonably enough, "should I pay for what I don't get?"-so he went cheerfully wherever he was bidden. Old Chester approved of him as a guest, for, though talkative, he was respectful in his demeanor, and he did not, so Old Chester said, "put on airs." He was very stout, and he wore a black wig that curled all around the back of his neck; his eyes were somewhat dull, but occasionally they glanced out keenly over his fat cheeks. He had a very small mouth, and a slight, perpetual smile that gave his face a rather kindly look, and his voice was mild and soft.

He had come back rich (his shabby clothes to the contrary),-" and poor Lydia is so poor!" said Old Chester; "perhaps-" and then it paused and smiled; and added that "it would be strange, after all these years, if-" When somebody said something like this to Dr. Lavendar he grew very cross. "Preposterous!" he said. "I should feel it my duty to prevent anything so dreadful."

And there were romantic hearts in Old Chester who were displeased with him for this remark. Mrs. Drayton said it showed that he could not understand love; "though he can't be blamed for that, as he never married. Still," said Mrs. Drayton, "he ought to have married. I don't want to make any accusations, but I always look with suspicion

on an unmarried gentleman." Mrs. Barkley did not go as far as that, but she did say to herself that Dr. Lavendar was unromantic. "Dear me!" she confided to Jane Jay-" if anything should happen! Well, I'd be glad to do anything I could to bring it about."

And Mrs. Barkley, who had not only the courage but the audacity of her convictions, invited the parted lovers to tea, so they met for the first time at her house. Mrs. Barkley was the last person one would accuse of being romantic, and yet Dr. Lavendar saw fit to stop at her door that morning and say, "Matches are dangerous playthings, ma'am!" and Mrs. Barkley grew very red, and said that she couldn't imagine what he meant.

However, the party went off well enough. Miss Jane Jay, who made a conscious fourth, expected some quiverings and blushings; but that was because she was young - comparatively. If she had been older she would have known better. Age, with shamefaced relief, has learned the solvent quality of Time. It is this quality which makes possible the contemplation of certain embarrassing heavenly reunions,-where explanations of consolation must be made. . . . Thirty-one years of days, days full of personal concerns and interests, had blurred and softened and finally almost blotted out that one fierce day of angry parting; those thirty-one years of days had made this man and woman able to meet with a sort of calm good-natured interest in each other. Miss Lydia, her black frizette over one smiling eye, her hands encased in white cotton gloves, a new ribbon at the throat of her very old alpaca, called him "William," with the most commonplace friendliness. He began with "Miss Sampson," but ended before supper was over with her first name, and even, once, just as they were going home, with "Lydy"; -at which she did start, and blink for an instant, and Jane Jay thought a faint color came into her cheek. However, he did not offer to walk home with her, but bowed politely at Mrs. Barkley's gate, and would have betaken himself to the tavern had not Mrs. Barkley, when he was half-way across the street, called after him. There was a flutter of uncertainty in her voice, for those words of