"I've lived among people just like myself all my life; it's contemptible," she thought. "No wonder I am narrow. A woman lives such a stupid life at home." She sat down and talked with Mrs. Andrews. Mrs. Andrews! What a prosaic name for this exotic plant; as if one called a _Fritallaria Imperialis_ a potato. She began to wonder about Mr. Andrews. What was he? Why had no one told her these people were remarkable? She almost forgot to answer questions, and bear her part in the conversation. She did not yet know whether she admired or not. She only knew she was near a person who had lived a different life from hers; who had a history; who probably didn't think as she did on any one subject; who was entering from a side door, the existence of which she had not guessed, upon a scene which had seemed to belong to Missy and her sort alone. From what realms did she come? In what school had she been taught? She could not make her out, while she was being thanked for bringing Jay home. There was a languor about her manner of speaking of the little boy, which did not satisfy Missy, used to mammas who lived for their children, and considered it the pride and glory of life to know nothing beyond the nursery. This was the first mother who had ever dared to be languid about her children on Missy's small stage. She did not understand, and perhaps showed her perplexity, for her new acquaintance, with a faint sigh, said: "Poor little Jay; he is so strong and vehement, so alien. I believe he terrifies me. I think it must be because I am weak." "I never liked a child so much; he is a little man," said Missy, warmly. "Ah, yes! you are well and strong; you are in sympathy with him--but I--ah, well, I hope, Miss Rothermel, you will never have to feel yourself useless and a burden." "I hope not, I am sure," said Missy honestly, feeling a little hurt on Jay's account, but still a great deal of pity for the soft voiced invalid. "Mamma could understand you better. She has been ill many years." "Ah, the dear lady! I wish that I might know her. But with her it is different in a way. She perhaps is used to it, if ever one can be used to misery. But for me it is newer, I suppose, and, when young, one looks for pleasure, just a little." Missy colored; she had forgotten that her mother could seem old to any one, and then she saw how very young her companion really was--younger than herself, no doubt. "It is very hard," she said. "Can't you interest yourself in the children at all? They would be such a diversion if you could." "My little Gabrielle, yes. But Jay is--so different, you know--so noisy; I believe he makes me ill every time he comes near me." "Gabrielle looks like you," said Missy. "I have seen her on the beach sometimes."