"It's a question of money," went on Miss Lady hurriedly. "You see we simply haven't any. I've kept account of every cent that comes in and goes out, just as Mr. Gooch told me to; but it doesn't balance. We'll just have to keep on cutting down expenses until it does."

"An' you are going to begin on me," said Myrtella furiously, "an' git in some onery nigger that'll carry home more in a basket than my wages would come to!"

"No, Myrtella; we are going to try to do the work ourselves."

"You mean _you_ are! An' Miss Connie'll primp herself up an' go hiking into town after beaux, an' Miss Hattie'll set around with her nose in a book, an' you'll go on workin' an' slavin' an' wearin' yourself to the bone fer them, an' their tribe of prowlin' kin. Where's the money you got for this farm?"

"It went to pay the debts and to carry out the Doctor's wishes."

"'Bout printin' all them books he wrote over again, an' bringin' 'em out in the same kind of covers?"

"Yes."

"How many was there, in all?"

"Twenty."

Myrtella compressed her lips, and with difficulty refrained from comment. However freely the Doctor's will had been discussed in public, no criticism of it was brooked in the presence of Miss Lady.

"As to your leaving," she said, changing the subject, while Myrtella vented her wrath on the flies, "you know you have wanted to go for months. It was only your goodness that made you come out here with us after you had saved money enough to start your boarding-house. We haven't been paying you enough, I know that, and--and we haven't enough to go on even as we are."

Myrtella wheeled in the doorway, her face purple with anger:

"If you think I'm a-goin' an' leave you children in this big house, messin' up yer own food, an' lettin' everybody run over you, you are mighty mistaken! Miss Hattie 'd be having indigestion inside a week, an' Bertie 'd git the croup, an' you'd have every female Queerington that could buy a railroad ticket comin' an' settin' down on you!"

"But what can we do, Myrtella? I tell you the money is giving out!"

"Do? I'll tell you what we can do. We can board the company! We can fill up the rooms with folks that pay for what they eat, an' there won't be any room for the free prowlers. You git the boarders an' I'll manage 'em."

"Why, Mrs. Ivy and Gerald wanted to come that way, but I laughed at them. Besides I don't know about Gerald--"

"On account of Miss Connie?" asked Myrtella, who had been too much in charge of the family not to know its secrets. "You let him come. He's one of them men that's like vanilla extract--you git too much of him onct, you never want no more!"

"And perhaps Mr. Gooch would come."

"Well it would go kinder hard with him to pay fer anything he's always got free. But git Miss Hattie to ast him. He'd do it fer her quicker'n anybody."

The project, under Myrtella's able generalship, developed immediately. Mr. Gooch and the Ivys gladly availed themselves of the opportunity of fleeing from the stifling city to the cool shade of Thornwood. Two former pupils of the Doctor's, who were taking a summer course at the university, also asked if they might have a room, and at the end of a week paying guests were in possession and the family relegated to any nook or corner that was large enough to accommodate a bed.

One problem was unexpectedly solved by the appearance of Uncle Jimpson, who announced that "he had done come back home to stay." The distinction of driving forth daily in solitary grandeur to exercise the Sequins' horses, had palled upon him, and the prospect of conducting the Queerington boarders back and forth to the station, and renewing his intimacy with old John and Mike, had proven irresistible.

Aunt Caroline had died in the early spring, and Uncle Jimpson found even the society of Myrtella a relief after his enforced loneliness. He listened with bulging eyes and sagging jaw to her accounts of the latest murders and obeyed her slightest command with a briskness that would have amazed the old Colonel.

"We's helpin' Miss Lady git a start," he would say proudly again and again, "an' then maybe she git married some more."

"Married!" Myrtella would flare, "yes, she orter git married to another widower with three children, and a thousand kin folks. Besides, who's she going to marry?"

"Ain't no trouble 'bout dat," Uncle Jimpson said wisely; "you jes' let her peek over de blinds onct, an' you see what gwine happen."

"Well, she ain't going to peek," Myrtella said firmly. "She ain't got a thought in her head, but gittin' Miss Hattie an' Bertie educated, an' keepin' Miss Connie straight, an' carryin' out that fool will of the Doctor's."

"Jest wait," Uncle Jimpson smilingly insisted, "dat chile can't no more help 'cumulatin' beaux dan a flower kin bees. An' hits de king bee dat's comin' dis time, shore!"

CHAPTER XXVI

"Where's Connie? Where's Hat?" cried Miss Lady breathlessly, bringing her foam-flecked horse to a halt in front of the porch where Mrs. Ivy was sitting in the twilight. "Don Morley has written a book and it's going to be published this month!"

"A book!" echoed Mrs. Ivy incredulously, then,

"Ah, my dear, do get off that vicious beast; I haven't had a moment's peace since Mr. Wicker sent him over!"

Miss Lady slipped to the ground and stood with her arm around Prince's neck, laughing. The thrill of her long ride, the first one in nearly two years, still surged through her, and the news just received made her heart dance for joy. Happiness, in spite of her efforts not to expect it, was beginning to shine across the troubled waters, a dim and wavering light as yet, but drawing her toward it with irresistible fascination. It was something to steer by in times of stress and storm, something to turn to tremulously, in the lonely hours of the night, when over-taxed muscles refused to relax and her tired brain ached with the pity and sorrow of the world.

During her long ride this afternoon she had dared for the first time to give rein to thoughts that had hitherto been held in check. Surely life was more than the dreary, monotonous, loveless business of the past summer! With all its problems and perplexities, it was nevertheless a mysterious, fascinating thing. She did not approve of it, nor did she altogether trust it, but she was incorrigibly in love with it--and would be to the end.

"I suppose you know that supper is over," said Mrs. Ivy, with veiled reproach. "Were there no letters for me?"

"Oh, dear, how stupid of me. I forgot to look through the rest of the mail. Here it is."

Mrs. Ivy sorted out her own official-looking budget, then peered closely at the two remaining envelopes.

"As I suspected," she said with a significant lifting of her eyebrows; "two for Constance, in the same handwriting and both postmarked from the Capitol."

"But what of it, Mrs. Ivy?"

"My _dear_," Mrs. Ivy breathed, "don't you see they are from Mr. Morley?"

"Yes; but I have one from him, too; he's telling us about his book."

Mrs. Ivy smiled with sad superiority, "Ah, my dear, you are not a very sophisticated little chaperon. I have hesitated to speak to you before, but I really think this young man's attention to Constance should be stopped. It isn't fair to poor Gerald. You know how she has always adored my boy, ever since she was in pinafores, and I don't mind confessing to you that I've encouraged her. Of course Gerald's artistic temperament has made him susceptible to many forms of beauty, but he has really been quite devoted of late. I simply can not endure the thought of that Mr. Morley interfering with the blossoming of their childhood love."

"But Mrs. Ivy, he--he is her cousin; he looks upon her as a child."

"She is only a year younger than you are, my dear, and much more worldly wise. I've had my eyes open and I've seen a great deal. She is getting quite secretive, and she isn't always gracious to Gerald. Mr. Morley's back of it all, you 'II see."

"I don't think there is any danger," said Miss Lady critically examining the tip of Prince's nose.

"Ah, my dear girl, you have been too engrossed for the past six months to notice. Ask Mr. Wicker; he spoke to Gerald about it last spring. Ask Gerald himself, he's wretchedly unhappy. And now you are helping her to get ready to go up to the Capitol to visit, and he's sure to see her every day. I must say that I think it's wretched taste for him to pay attentions to any girl under the circumstances."

In an instant Miss Lady had wheeled with flashing eyes:

"Donald's friends know that he hasn't done anything to be ashamed of! I don't believe he thinks of Connie in the way you mean, but if he does she has every reason to be proud of it!"

And without waiting for an answer she drew the bridle over her arm and tramped indignantly off to the stable.