the changing year appears to relent and linger, and the southward-flitting robin loiters, cheated for a day. The woman sat quietly in the open window, a stately and, to the least observant, a remarkable-looking person. She was in early middle life, possibly thirty-five. The outline of her face was of the Roman type, delicate in the detail of the light proud nostril, and bold and noble in the general contour of feature. The mouth was a little large, but clearly cut, the chin full and decided. Over a forehead rather high, and more strongly moulded than is common in women, clustered plentiful brown hair, curled short in the fashion then oddly called Brutus. A skin of smooth dark rich nectarine bloom made soft the lines of this face, which in repose was at times somewhat stern. The more acute observer would have been struck with the sombre, thoughtful air of command and power in the brow, the mysterious sweetness of the dark-gray eyes and the contradictory lines of mirth and humor about the mouth.
Nature had here formed a remarkable character, and circumstance had given it a strange part to play in the drama of life.
In the garden in front of her and below the window, a charming contrast, sat her niece Marguerite, not less a contrast in her plainest of Friends' dress than in the blond beauty of her young and fast-ripening form.
Presently the large blue eyes ceased wandering from the book on her lap to the mottled buttonwood bole or the forms of passing wayfarers seen between the snowdrop bushes. "I promised my guardian to read it," she said; and the blue eyes turned up to meet the friendly gaze above her. "But I do not like the man in the book. Thee could not read it: thee would never have liked Friend Fox."
"A nice Quaker you are!" said her aunt, laughing. "Say thou, thou, or you will never learn to speak in meeting."
"I never want to," cried the girl, pouting. "I like bright things—red things, blue things. I was never meant to be a Quaker. Why may I not go to Christ Church with thee, and wear gay clothes like the trees, aunty? They had no Fox. I wonder Master Penn did not run away when he saw the red hickories and the yellow maples. I will not read it;" and so saying she threw the book on the grass, and casting a kiss to her aunt began to pluck the bright autumn flowers at her feet.
"The way was set for you by another will than mine," said her aunt. "Be content to walk in it, Marguerite. Perhaps it is better as it is."
"Perhaps," said the girl—"yes, perhaps; but when I am twenty-one there will be no 'perhaps.'"
"You will always respect the wish of your dead father," said Miss Howard.
The girl looked grave, the elder woman troubled.
"Is Marguerite a Friend's name?" said her niece, pausing and facing her.
"No," returned her aunt. "You know well, my dear, that your mother was a Frenchwoman, and that you bear her name."
"And was she of our Society, aunt?" said the girl.—"I wish I could have seen her."
"I wish you could," said the elder woman, ignoring the question. "Ah, I must hasten to ask Hephzibah to make you a better Quaker. I am a poor teacher, I think. I should begin by dyeing those big blue eyes gray, and painting those red cheeks white, as Hephzibah did her brass clock last year;" and the two laughed merrily at the remembrance.
"I did not tell you," said the elder, "that I had a note this morning telling me that we are to have the honor to-day of a visit from a committee of Friends. It cannot be for me, and I suppose it is about some of your madcap pranks."
"Oh, not for me, surely!" said the girl, a little scared. "That must be Hephzibah Guinness's doings. I hate her!"
"Hush!" said her aunt, smiling. "Here she comes. Get thee gone, little scamp!"
"Of a verity, the Spirit persuadeth me to depart," said the girl under her breath; and hastily gathering her flowers in her lap she fled around the corner of the house,
