“Yes, Mrs. Samuels. And there is Mrs. Clutton at the Buttery. Her husband is a journalist--so she says.” The last three words were spoken impressively. Pamela immediately divined that Mrs. Clutton, of the Buttery, was not a local favorite. “Nancy has a great taste for literature,” Mrs. Turle continued, with a fond glance at her daughter, who immediately blushed. “I think that if there had ever been any question of her going out into the world she would have chosen literature.” “Only I can never think of a subject,” Nancy said pathetically. “If only I could think of a subject and get somebody else to begin!” “We subscribe to Smith’s,” Mrs. Turle said, smiling sweetly. “We like to keep abreast with the times. Nancy goes in for serious subjects; she is halfway through Ruskin’s----” “Huxley’s, mamma.” “There is very little difference, dear. But I confine myself to current fiction. I’m just reading Kingsley’s ‘Westward Ho!’” “I’m not at all literary,” said Pamela. “I was governess for a time. Then I was a companion. And--and I managed a boarding-house.” “Really! Then you understand housekeeping. That will be a help to Gainah, who is growing old. Ah! here she is. I suppose you have made your elderberry wine, Gainah? I only got a cask and a half this year.” Pamela opened her gray eyes when Mrs. Turle of Turle affectionately greeted the housekeeper. She was astounded to see Gainah, in her black silk, and with a worn gold chain round her scraggy neck, sit down with the easy air of an equal on the sofa. She couldn’t understand her position. She derided the idea of her importance--an ignorant old woman who was always cooking. Gainah in her eyes was a servant--nothing more. But in local opinion she was entitled to much deference. The laborers regarded her as even more important than “young Jethro,” who was only a stripling. Nancy took Pamela’s hand. “Come out in the garden,” she said. “I so love a garden. Do you?” “I don’t know anything about it,” said Pamela, as they strolled about in the sun, and the other girl made little gurgling comments. “How sweet those stocks are! What a show of asters! Ours were a failure. Evergreen doesn’t care for asters. He likes carpet-bedding and I bought him a half-crown packet of petunia seed; so I did hope he would succeed with the asters. You must get Jethro to build you a little greenhouse. I could give you plenty of geranium cuttings next spring. It is a little late to take them now. I think it is a little late; but I must ask Evergreen. You should have a bicycle.” She was evidently anxious to be friendly. “Would you like to join our Shakspere class? It is quite proper, you know.” “Perhaps,” said Pamela vaguely. Directly she heard the tea bell she hastened her steps almost rudely. She was determined that Gainah should not take the head of the table, and she managed to slip on to the oak stool behind the urn just as the two elder women came along the corridor.