time, in her own home, where she missed her mother most, in
bright-colored array, and in funeral attire outside. She told her
father about it, but he had not a large income, and it had been
severely taxed by his wife's almost tragic illness and death.
Besides, if the truth were known, he disliked to see Maria in
mourning, and the humor of the thing also appealed to him.

"You had better wear what your aunt says, dear. You feel just the
same in your heart, don't you?" asked Harry Edgham, with that light
laugh of his, which always so shocked his serious little daughter.

"Yes, sir," she replied, with a sob.

"Well, then, do just as your aunt says, and be a good little girl,"
said Harry, and he went hastily out on the porch with his cigar.

Nothing irritated him so much as to see Maria weep for her mother. He
was one of those who wrestle and fight against grief, and to see it
thrust in his face by the impetus of another heart exasperated him,
although he could say nothing. It may be that, with his temperament,
it was even dangerous for him to cherish grief, and, for that very
reason, he tried to put his dead wife out of his mind, as she had
been taken out of his life.

"Well, men are different from women," Aunt Maria said to her niece
Maria one night, when Harry had gone out on the piazza, after he had
talked and laughed a good deal at the supper-table.

Harry Edgham heard the remark, and his face took on a set expression
which it could assume at times. He did not like his sister-in-law,