certain other charming but incongruous details of furniture, marked the
inconsistencies of the climate.

There was a coquettish indication of this in the costume of Miss
Kate Scott as she stepped out on the veranda that morning. A man's
broad-brimmed Panama hat, partly unsexed by a twisted gayly-colored
scarf, but retaining enough character to give piquancy to the pretty
curves of the face beneath, protected her from the sun; a red flannel
shirt--another spoil from the enemy--and a thick jacket shielded her
from the austerities of the morning breeze. But the next inconsistency
was peculiarly her own. Miss Kate always wore the freshest and lightest
of white cambric skirts, without the least reference to the temperature.
To the practical sanatory remonstrances of her brother-in-law, and to
the conventional criticism of her sister, she opposed the same defence:
"How else is one to tell when it is summer in this ridiculous climate?
And then, woollen is stuffy, color draws the sun, and one at least
knows when one is clean or dirty." Artistically the result was far from
unsatisfactory. It was a pretty figure under the sombre pines, against
the gray granite and the steely sky, and seemed to lend the yellowing
fields from which the flowers had already fled a floral relief of color.
I do not think the few masculine wayfarers of that locality objected
to it; indeed, some had betrayed an indiscreet admiration, and had
curiously followed the invitation of Miss Kate's warmly-colored figure
until they had encountered the invincible indifference of Miss Kate's
cold gray eyes. With these manifestations her brother-in-law did
not concern himself; he had perfect confidence in her unqualified
disinterest in the neighboring humanity, and permitted her to wander in
her solitary picturesqueness, or accompanied her when she rode in her
dark green habit, with equal freedom from anxiety.