“I don’t know a person in Lewisburg from Adam,” she said. “Come on, Uncle Abe; you’ve gossiped enough this time,” and with a resigned sigh the old darky climbed to his seat again, whipped up the horses, and set off on the return journey to Ferndale. Molly Trueheart leaned back in the carriage and gave herself up to the enjoyment of her own thoughts until they again came in sight of the Laurens estate when she called out to the old driver: “Uncle Abe, who stays over there when the family goes abroad?” Uncle Abe, out of humor at being separated so soon from his gossip, grunted out crossly: “Nobody but dem sassy Laurens niggers.” Molly felt herself snubbed and drew back her curly head, relapsing into a silence that lasted until she again crossed the threshold of Ferndale. Mrs. Thalia Barry was sitting in the wide hall taking snuff out of a golden snuff-box. She was a tall, spare woman with a frame that had originally been strong and stout, although now dwindled by the encroachments of age and the horrors of a chronic dyspepsia. She had thin, masculine-looking features, a false front of waved, white hair, false teeth, and her small, twinkling, greenish-gray eyes were partially hidden by gold-rimmed spectacles. She dressed habitually in soft, thick, gray silk, and pinned her collar of the yellowest old real lace with a magnificent diamond brooch. Ill-health had magnified an already imperious temper; and Molly was not far wrong when she complained that the aristocratic old lady was a perfect old dragoness, for she was the terror of her servants when in one of her “spells,” as they called them, and even her young visitor had more than once smarted under the lash of her displeasure. But she looked up now with some eagerness, and said in her shrill, curt tone: “Back so soon? I hope that old rascal, Abe, did not drive my horses too fast! Well, Louise, come and show me your silk.” The pretty, dark eyed girl, in her cheap white dress and rustic straw hat, halted in the door-way with a frightened expression and gazed half appealingly into Mrs. Barry’s stern, ugly face. “Well?” said the lady, impatiently. “Do you want some one to bring your bundle in from the carriage? Here, Ginny Ann,” to an old negro woman hovering about the back door, “go out to the carriage and get Miss Barry’s bundle!” Molly sprang forward, her frightened expression changing to one of defiant bravery. “Oh, aunt, she needn’t go! There’s--there’s no bundle there! I didn’t buy the dress!” she cried out, desperately. “But why?” cried Mrs. Barry in amazement. And the girl faltered, with hot blushes. “I didn’t need it, you know.” Mrs. Barry flew suddenly into a fury. “Not need the dress, you silly girl, when you have not a decent rag to your back! What do you mean?” she stormed, in loud, angry tones. Molly’s blushes grew hotter still, but they were those of anger now, and her black eyes blazed as she retorted: