He was about to yield, to give an unconditional assent, when a voice came gently up the stairway, "Miss Chelda, Miss Chelda!" The impassioned woman trembled in her lover's arms. Always an interruption from that persistent girl. Some day she would be revenged on her. "I must not keep you," said Mr. Huntington, hurriedly. "I will see you to-morrow." She went reluctantly from the room, casting a backward glance at him as he turned his nervously working face to the window. "To-morrow, to-morrow, always to-morrow,--would to-day never come?" She passed a hand over her dark features. They resumed their usual expression of calm disguise, and she rejoined the circle below. "Yes, aunt, I am ready. Mr. Huntington and I were talking theology. I really think I must become a member of his church." Mrs. Negus was the only one who received her words with unbounded faith. Miss Gastonguay looked doubtful, Derrice was non-committal, while Captain White winked openly at the hall light. CHAPTER XVII. CAPTAIN WHITE CHOOSES A MONUMENT. "Now if they were only like the two little nigger boys that used to go to school with me, I could crack their heads together and make them kiss and be friends, but you can't very well do that with ladies," and, in comical perplexity, Captain White surveyed his two cousins,--one genuine, the other by adoption, as the latter quickly withdrew from the room on seeing the former enter it. "Hippolyta," he said, wheeling around upon Mrs. Prymmer as she established herself in the sunny window, knitting in hand, "that daughter-in-law treats you very civilly now, doesn't she?" "She does," said Mrs. Prymmer. "You haven't anything to complain of?" "No, I haven't." "She doesn't make fun of you?" "No, she don't." "Then for the land's sake why don't you talk to her?" Mrs. Prymmer calmly began to set the heel of a sock for Justin. "What have I to talk about, Micah?" "To talk about,--bless my heart, your tongue runs fast enough at other times. Talk of the weather, the fall of snow, last year's catch of herring,--anything except such cemetery stillness whenever that girl is about." "Well, Micah," she said, diplomatically, "I'll try to oblige you, but it will be hard work." "You'll not try," he muttered, "you don't want to,--you're the confoundedest, most stubborn, pig-headedest sort of a woman I ever saw. There's nothing for it but my master stroke," and with a happy indrawing of his breath, he began, "Hippolyta, do you know what I'm thinking of?" "No, Micah," she said, placidly. "Well, I'm thinking of putting up a monument to myself." "A monument?" "Yes, a good respectable monument. You see I'm alone in the world. Suppose I die to-morrow, what do I leave to remember me by?"