The scene with the stage load of servants would be in possession of all these by to-morrow, if it were not so to-day. She knew the ability of Yellowcoats to absorb news, as a sponge absorbs water;--it would look very fair and dry, but touch it, squeeze it, ah, bah. Yellowcoats could take in anything, from the smallest detail to the most exaggerated improbability. She had spent her life in Yellowcoats, and she knew it. From highest to lowest it craved a sensation, and would sacrifice its best and choicest to fill up the gaping vacancy. She knew how good the story was, she knew how much foundation it seemed to have. What could she ever do to contradict it? Nothing. No word of it would ever reach her ears. She would be treated with the old deference, but she would know the laugh that underlaid it. She had no chance of contradicting what no one would say to her. And in action, what could she do? If she refused ever to see the children again, declined abruptly all intercourse with their neighbors, it would only be said, with more emphasis than ever, that she had met with sudden discouragement; that the gentleman had become alarmed at her ardent interest in his household matters, and had withdrawn abruptly from even ordinary civilities. If she still went on as before, appearing daily with the children in the carriage, taking them to church with her, it would be said she was still pursuing the chase, was still cherishing hopes of promotion. Whatever she did, it was all one. She couldn't publish a card in the paper, she couldn't go about and tell people they had been misinformed, when they didn't acknowledge to any information at all. The only thing she could do was to marry some one else out of hand, and that she felt she was almost prepared to do, if any one else were to be had on a moment's notice. But all her few men were dead men, and there was not a new one to be had for the wishing. It was surely a very trying situation, and Missy shed bitter tears about it, and felt she hated, hated, hated this strange widower, whom she persisted in calling stout and elderly, as if that were the worst thing that a man could be. She knew him so slightly, she hated him so deeply. What business had he to humiliate her so? Though, to do him justice, it had not been his fault; he had only been the instrument of her chastisement. These tantalizing thoughts were interrupted, in the course of an hour, by Ann, bringing her a letter. Missy sat down to read it, knowing it was from Mr. Andrews.