“It is a failing which will never harm anybody,” the young man replied, smiling; then linking arms in a friendly way with his companion, they wended their way to view that wonder of modern achievements, the Corliss engine, and those countless other inventions of the human brain. CHAPTER II BROWNIE’S THOUGHTS In a luxurious apartment of a modern house on Chestnut street, two hours after the incidents related in our first chapter, Miss Mehetabel Douglas, the senior, might have been seen sitting in a comfortable easy-chair, while Brownie sat upon an ottoman at her feet. The former was a woman of about sixty-five years of age, with a delicate, high-bred face, surrounded by bands of soft, silvery hair. She had dark gray eyes, which always had a look in them as of some hope suddenly crushed out of her life, while a patient, gentle expression hovered about her thin, aristocratic lips. Brownie had just been reading to her from “Patience Strong’s Outings,” and now they were talking it over together. “Why is it, I wonder,” said Brownie, reflectively, “that so much sport is made of old maids?” “I suppose because the theory prevails, that every old maid has failed to catch a husband, and is therefore a fit subject for ridicule,” Miss Mehetabel returned, a little gleam of amusement lighting up her sad eyes. “Pshaw! I know any number of people, who are no more fit to be wives and mothers than so many children; and yet every one has managed to secure a husband, while there are plenty of ‘old maids’ in the world, so patiently living out their lonely lives, who would make such strong, helpful wives, such wise and tender mothers. Now, auntie, you would have made such a splendid wife for some good man; and you ought to have had at least a dozen children. What a charming household it would have been, for you would have governed so wisely and so well. I don’t believe nature ever intended you for an old maid.” A spasm of pain contracted the old lady’s brow, but she replied, quietly: “Perhaps not; yet there is, doubtless, some wise reason for it. What would have become of you, dear, if I had had a large family of my own?” “Oh, I should have only made up the baker’s dozen, and it seems such a pity that so much native talent should all be lavished upon one poor little waif like me,” Brownie said, with a little laugh. “If I had had the number you assign me, dear, and they had all proved the blessing to me that you have been, I fear it would have been too much happiness for one human being; and yet——” The old lady did not conclude her sentence, but heaved a deep sigh, while unshed tears stood in her beautiful eyes. “Auntie, why were you an old maid? I don’t understand it—it must have been no one’s fault but your own.” “My own fault, Brownie! You don’t know—child, you don’t know,” cried Miss Mehetabel, sharply, while a deep, dry sob, that was almost a groan, burst from her lips.