Withers, her mother's half--sister, keeping house with her brother
Malachi, a bachelor, already called Old Malachi, though hardly entitled
by his years to such a venerable prefix. Both these persons had
inherited the predominant traits of their sad-eyed mother. Malachi, the
chief heir of the family property, was rich, but felt very poor. He
owned this fine old estate of some hundreds of acres. He had moneys in
the bank, shares in various companies, wood-lots in the town; and a large
tract of Western land, the subject of a lawsuit which seemed as if it
would never be settled, and kept him always uneasy.

Some said he hoarded gold somewhere about the old house, but nobody knew
this for a certainty. In spite of his abundant means, he talked much of
poverty, and kept the household on the narrowest footing of economy. One
Irishwoman, with a little aid from her husband now and then, did all
their work; and the only company they saw was Miss Cynthia Badlam, who,
as a relative, claimed a home with them whenever she was so disposed.

The "little Indian," as Malachi called her, was an awkward accession to
the family. Silence Withers knew no more about children and their ways
and wants than if she had been a female ostrich. Thus it was that she
found it necessary to send for a woman well known in the place as the
first friend whose acquaintance many of the little people of the town had
made in this vale of tears.

Thirty years of practice had taught Nurse Byloe the art of handling the
young of her species with the soft firmness which one may notice in cats
with their kittens,--more grandly in a tawny lioness mouthing her cubs.
Myrtle did not know she was held; she only felt she was lifted, and borne
up, as a cherub may feel upon a white-woolly cloud, and smiled
accordingly at the nurse, as if quite at home in her arms.