If you spent only ten minutes by Miss Joan's bedside you were sure to
hear her grumble at her cousin Mary. Since everything was done for her
that could possibly be done for an invalid her lot had great
alleviations, but she seemed to take it as an offence that my godmother
should be so strong and free, should walk with such a swinging stride,
and always enjoy her food, and bring that smell of the open air with her
wherever she came.

She had an unpleasant flattering way with her at times.

"Come, my dear," she would say, "sit down and talk to me. I live in so
dreary an isolation, and my nerves get into that state that I could
scream when a harsh voice falls on my ear. Your voice is soft and sweet,
but have you ever noticed Mary's? It is as harsh as a crow's, and when
she comes in with those strong boots of hers creaking she destroys my
peace of mind for an hour."

"She has a beautiful voice," I answered her once, "and there is such
assurance in her tread. I should think it would be more trying to the
nerves to live where every one went tiptoe."

But no manner of coldness could check Miss Joan's propensity for
belittling her benefactress. And I remember that once she had been
tittle-tattling as usual, and had said something more indefensible than
usual of her benefactress, when looking up suddenly we found Miss
Champion in the room.

"Let the child love me, Joan," she said, with the nearest approach to
sharpness I ever heard in her speech; but when Miss Joan burst into
tears she stooped and shook up her pillows and soothed her in a way that