in reading it, for a great deal of fresh talk follows the advent of the
post, and may be reckoned on. Without looking up, however, she could
tell presently that the letter had been read through. Such being the
case, and no conversation coming of it, her curiosity was violent. Her
aunt's face, too, was an index of something extraordinary. That
inflexible woman, instead of alluding to the letter in any way, folded it
up, and renewed her dictation. It became a contest between them which
should show her human nature first. Mrs. Mel had to repress what she
knew; Mrs. Fiske to control the passion for intelligence. The close
neighbourhood of one anxious to receive, and one capable of giving, waxed
too much for both.

'I think, Anne, you are stupid this morning,' said Mrs. Mel.

'Well, I am, aunt,' said Mrs. Fiske, pretending not to see which was the
first to unbend, 'I don't know what it is. The figures seem all dazzled
like. I shall really be glad when Evan comes to take his proper place.'

'Ah!' went Mrs. Mel, and Mrs. Fiske heard her muttering. Then she cried
out: 'Are Harriet and Caroline as great liars as Louisa?'

Mrs. Fiske grimaced. 'That would be difficult, would it not, aunt?'

'And I have been telling everybody that my son is in town learning his
business, when he's idling at a country house, and trying to play his
father over again! Upon my word, what with liars and fools, if you go to
sleep a minute you have a month's work on your back.'

'What is it, aunt?' Mrs. Fiske feebly inquired.