“I gave her the wings to soar,” she now added virtuously, “and I inquired of Captain Salter if she had used them. I found his report quite unsatisfactory.” “Why, where is Rosalie?” asked Betsy quickly, stopping her labors in the interest of her query. “Captain Salter wasn’t sure. He said he supposed Mrs. Pogram knew, but there had been some recent quarrel with a brother of Mrs. Pogram’s and it had ended in Rosalie’s going away.” “Soarin’, perhaps,” remarked Betsy dryly, grasping the legs of an unoffending table and giving it vicious tweaks with the dust-cloth. “Just as well folks shouldn’t be given wings sometimes, in my opinion. When a bird’s got plumage like Rosalie’s, it’d better stick to the long grass. The world’s just full o’ folks that if they catch sight o’ the brightness never rest till they get a shot at it and drag it down.” “Was she so pretty? Let’s see, was she dark or light? Oh, I remember her hair was blonde.” Betsy gave one look at her employer. It was entirely characteristic that two years should have sunk the village girl’s memory in a haze. Mrs. Bruce sighed and began to polish another fork. “It seldom pays to try to help people,” she said. “I distinctly remember the girl had talent, and I thought she might get a position in one of the Portland schools if she had a little training and applied herself.” “Her letters to you certainly sounded as if she was workin’ her best.” “Did they?” vaguely. “Perhaps they did. Well, very likely she has gone to take a position then.” “Not in summer time, I guess,” remarked Betsy. “I don’t seem to remember any brother of Mrs. Pogram’s,” said Mrs. Bruce plaintively. “Humph! You’ve probably bought ribbons of him lots o’ times. He sells ’em up in Portland, and I’ll bet it’s a strain on him every time he measures off over thirty-five and a half inches for a yard. Brown’s his name. Loomis Brown; and it would seem more fittin’ if ’twas Lucy. Such a hen-betty I never saw in all my days. I wonder if it’s possible he took to shinin’ up to Rosalie.” “Oh, he’s a bachelor?” “Law, yes. He wouldn’t want to pay for a marriage license, but p’raps he took such a shine to Rosalie as she grew older that it spurred him on to the extravagance. No tellin’. If that’s the case, no wonder she took wings.” “It’s very tiresome,” said Mrs. Bruce, “the way girls will marry after one has done one’s best for them.” “Yes, Mrs. Bruce. The next time you take a fancy to a village girl, you give her a course in cookin’ instead of English. She can jaw her husband all right without any teachin’; but it takes trainin’ to make good bread.” Mrs. Bruce sighed leniently. “That is your point of view, naturally,” she said. “You could hardly be expected to have that divining rod which recognizes the artistic. Strange how much better I remember that girl’s gift and her unstudied gestures than I do her face.”