Blair had become the mainstay of her family. Unconsciously she had slipped into the position where she was the prop on which both her father and mother leaned. She taught her little colored school, and at home was always busy about something. She vied with Mrs. Andy Stamper in raising chickens, and with Miss Thomasia in raising violets. Under her skilful management, the little cottage amid its wilderness of fruit-trees, in which old Mr. and Mrs. Bellows had lived, became a rose-bower, and the fruit-trees became an orchard with its feet buried in clover. Her father said of her that she was a perpetual reproduction of the miracle of the creation—that she created the sun and followed it with all the plants and herbs after their kind. Yet, with all these duties, Blair found time to run over to see Miss Thomasia almost every day or two; at first shyly and at rare intervals, but, after she found that Jacquelin was always at his office, oftener and more freely. She always declared that a visit to Miss Thomasia was like reading one of Scott’s novels; that she got back to a land of chivalry and drank at the springs of pure romance; while Miss Thomasia asserted that Blair was a breath of May. Jacquelin, after a time, came to recognize the traces of Blair’s visits, in the little touches of change and improvement about the house: a pruned rose-bush here, a fold of white curtain there, and he often had to hear her praises sung by Miss Thomasia’s guileless tongue, and listen to the good lady’s lament because Blair and Steve did not proceed a little more satisfactorily with their affairs. Miss Thomasia had an idea that it was on account of Steve’s former reputation for wildness. “It would have such a good influence on Steve,” she declared, “would be just what he needed. I quite approve of a young lady being coy and maidenly, but, of course, I know there is an understanding between them, and I must say, I think Blair is carrying it too far.” She bridled as she always did at the thought of anyone opposing Steve. “I know that a man is sometimes driven by a young lady’s cruelty—apparent cruelty—for I am sure Blair would not wittingly injure anyone—into courses very sad and injurious to him.” Miss Thomasia heaved a sigh and gazed out of the window, and a moment later resumed her knitting. “Do you see anything of that—young lady, Miss Welch?” she asked Jacquelin, suddenly. Jacquelin said he had not seen her for some time, except at church, and once or twice in the village, at a distance. “I did not suppose you had,” said Miss Thomasia. “She is a very nice, refined girl—has always been very sweet to me when I have met her—but of course—.” Her lips closed firmly and she began to knit vigorously, leaving Jacquelin to wonder what she meant. “I only wanted to know,” she said, presently, and that was the only explanation she gave. CHAPTER XXX SOME OF THE GRAIN MRS. WELCH REAPED