"Oh, I don’t complain, my dear. You are an equal sufferer. And I am distinctly relieved at the thought of removing some of this terrible dust before we—before—we—" Her voice trailed off into silence as she caught sight of a motto over the door; it was one of those affairs worked in colored worsted over perforated cloth; the colors had been chosen with less regard to harmony than is usually exhibited by an artist; perhaps it was contrast that was sought; as a study in contrasts it was a blasting success. Mrs. Blake glared at it with the fascinated interest of a spectator within the danger zone of a bursting bomb. "’God bless our home,’" she read, in awed undertone. "Perhaps He will, but it is more than it deserves." She mounted laboriously onto a chair and turned the motto to the wall, hastily facing it about again with a suppressed scream: if the front were chaos the back was a cataclysm. In a spasm of indignation she jerked it loose from its fastening and dropped it out of sight behind the evil-looking washstand. In this position her glance fell on the crude specimen of basin provided. She picked it up doubtfully and struck it against the side of the washstand. "Tin!" she exclaimed. "A dishpan!" and went off into peals of laughter, banging the pan and calling "Dinner!" in an unnaturally deep voice, when she could speak from laughing. Margaret turned a sullen face from the window. She had seen the French Rose in animated conversation with a tall, good-looking man in flannel shirt and overalls, who had ridden away up the road, evidently in obedience to her orders; while Rose, herself, rode in the direction taken by Whitby. The soft, broad-brimmed hat, the waist but little different from the flannel shirt of the man, the ill-fitting skirt, the mannish gloves and clumsy boots—the superb health of the splendid figure proclaimed itself through all these disadvantages. The woman was a perfect counterfoil for Whitby, and Margaret hid the ache in her heart under a sullenness of demeanor that a less astute companion might have attributed to the annoyances and inconveniences of the journey. "For heaven’s sake, Aunt, don’t make such a noise," she insisted; "my head aches as if it would split." "Your head aches! I ’m sorry, my dear. Still, there are worse things than head-aches, now are n’t there?" Margaret stared. "No doubt," she admitted, tartly; "but it is the worst I have to submit, at present. When a greater evil befalls me I will tell you." "Why, that’s honest," said Mrs. Blake, cheerfully; "and as long as we are to be honest, you are sure it is not your conscience that is at fault?" "My conscience?" asked Margaret. "What has my conscience to do with a head-ache?" "First class in Physical Geography, rise. Jessie, what is the origin of the islands of head-aches that vex the pacific waters of the soul? They are due to volcanic action of bad conscience." "Oh, Aunt! how can you be so absurd?"