“May the Lord punish that boy as he deserves,” she said, as she wrapped her book in its folds of paper and replaced it in her bureau drawer. “He’s riled me all up, just as I was beginning to feel as if I had been to meetin’, or church, I s’pose I ought to call it,” she continued, as she opened her doors and went about her accustomed work. Whether it was the service in the Prayer Book which did it, or the sight of her mother’s handwriting, or the faded flower, Miss Hansford gradually grew softer, and while religiously striving to live up to her principles, she became more tolerant of the world as she saw it around her. She still drew the line on dancing and play-acting and cards as emanating directly from the bottomless pit, but the sacred concerts were less obnoxious, and, instead of stopping her ears with cotton when the band played on Sunday, she sometimes found herself listening to it and nodding her head to the strains if they chanced to be familiar. With all her peculiarities, she was so thoroughly kind-hearted and loyal to her friends, that she was generally popular with those who knew her best. A few ridiculed her and resented her inordinate curiosity with regard to their affairs, of which she often seemed to know more than they did themselves. She had a wonderful faculty for remembering everybody’s age. She knew how much they were worth; how they made their money; who they were, and what they sprang from, and, by means of her far-seeing spectacles, with which she attended to her neighbor’s business, and her near-seeing ones, with which she attended to her own, she managed to keep a pretty firm hold on the affairs and conduct of the people around her. On the morning when she is first introduced to the reader she had satisfied herself with regard to the number of passengers who came on the boat; had decided who most of them were, and then centered her interest on Paul Ralston, whose unexpected appearance surprised her a little. She prided herself on her intimacy with the Ralstons, and usually knew where they were, and what they were doing. Paul, she supposed, was in Europe, or possibly on the ocean; yet, here he was, fastening his boat and coming up the pathway across the park towards her cottage. “For the land’s sake, I believe he’s coming here, and I looking like a fright, with this old apron on, and my sleeves rolled up,” she exclaimed, and, hastily entering the house, she put down her sleeves, exchanged her calico apron for a clean white one, took her tea-kettle off the stove, and was in the wide doorway ready to greet the young man, who came bounding up the steps two at a time and grasped her hand warmly with his cheery, “Hello, Aunt Phebe! How are you?” CHAPTER II. PAUL RALSTON.