“Yes. And I have the satisfaction of knowing that whatever people think of Louise’s giddiness, I’m, a great deal more scandalous to them than she is simply because I wish to do some good in the world, in a way that women haven’t done it, usually.” “Now you _are_ morbid.” “Oh, yes! Talk about men being obstacles! It’s other women! There isn’t a woman in the house that wouldn’t sooner trust herself in the hands of the stupidest boy that got his diploma with me than she would in mine. Louise knows it, and she feels that she has a claim upon me in being my patient. And I’ve no influence with her about her conduct because she understands perfectly well that they all consider me much worse. She prides herself on doing me justice. She patronizes me. She tells me that I’m just as nice as if I hadn’t ‘been through all that.’” Grace rose, and a laugh, which was half a sob, broke from her. Mrs. Breen could not feel the humor of the predicament. “She puts you in a false position.” “I must go and see where that poor little wretch of a child is,” said Grace, going out of the room. She returned in an hour, and asked her mother for the arnica. “Bella has had a bump,” she explained. “Why, have you been all this time looking for her? “No, I couldn’t find her, and I’ve been reading. Barlow has just brought her in. _He_ could find her. She fell out of a tree, and she’s frightfully bruised.” She was making search on a closet shelf as she talked. When she reappeared with the bottle in her hand, her mother asked, “Isn’t it very hot and close?” “Very,” said Grace. “I should certainly think they would perish,” said Mrs. Breen, hazarding the pronoun, with a woman’s confidence that her interlocutor would apply it correctly. When Grace had seen Bella properly bathed and brown-papered, and in the way to forgetfulness of her wounds in sleep, she came down to the piazza, and stood looking out to sea. The ladies appeared one by one over the edge of the cliff, and came up, languidly stringing their shawls after them, or clasping their novels to their bosoms. “There isn’t a breath down there,” they said, one after another. The last one added, “Barlow says it’s the hottest day he’s ever seen here.” In a minute Barlow himself appeared at the head of the steps with the ladies’ remaining wraps, and confirmed their report in person. “I tell you,” he said, wiping his forehead, “it’s a ripper.” “It must be an awful day in town,” said one of the ladies, fanning herself with a newspaper. “Is that to-day’s Advertiser, Mrs. Alger?” asked another. “Oh, dear, no! yesterday’s. We sha’n’t have today’s till this afternoon. It shows what a new arrival you are, Mrs. Scott—your asking.” “To be sure. But it’s such a comfort being where you can see the Advertiser the same morning. I always look at the Weather Report the first thing. I like to know what the weather is going to be.” “You can’t at Jocelyn’s. You can only know what it’s been.”