"M-m-m," murmured Charlotte remotely, from the miles and miles that separated them. Mrs. Thrift regarded her for a moment, tapping her cheek thoughtfully with the quill in her hand. Her frown deepened. Charlotte was wearing a black sateen apron, very full. Her hair, drawn straight back from her face, was gathered at the back into a chenille net. A Garibaldi blouse completed the hideousness of her costume. There quivered about her an aura--a glow--a roseate something--that triumphed over apron, net, and blouse. Mrs. Thrift sensed this without understanding it. Her puzzlement took the form of nagging. "It seems to me, Charlotte, that you might better be employed with your plain sewing than with fancywork such as that." Charlotte's black sateen lap was gay with scraps of silk; cherry satin, purple velvet, green taffetas, scarlet, blue. She was making a patchwork silk quilt of an intricate pattern (of which work of art more later). "Yes, indeed," said she now, unfortunately. And hummed a little tune. Mrs. Thrift stood up with a great rustling of account-book leaves, and of skirts; with all the stir of outraged dignity. "Well, miss, I'll thank you to pay the compliment of listening when I talk to you. You sit there smiling at nothing, like a simpleton, I do declare!" "I was listening, mother." "What did I last say?" "Why--beef--six--" "Humph! What with patchwork quilts and nonsense like that, and out on your pony every day, fine or not, I sometimes wonder, miss, what you think yourself. Beef indeed!" She gathered up her books and papers. It was on her tongue's tip to forbid the afternoon's ride. Something occult in Charlotte sensed this. She leaned forward. "Oh, mother, Mrs. Perry's passing on Madison and looking at the house. I do believe she's coming in. Wait. Yes, she's turning in. I think I'll just----" "Stay where you are," commanded Mrs. Thrift. Charlotte subsided. She bent over her work again, half hidden by the curtains that hung stiffly before the entrance to the window-nook. You could hear Mrs. Perry's high sharp voice in speech with Cassie, the servant. "If she's in the dining room I'll go right in. Don't bother about the parlor." She came sweeping down the hall. It was evident that news was on her tongue's tip. Her bonnet was slightly askew. Her hoops swayed like a hill in a quake. Mrs. Thrift advanced to meet her. They shook hands at arm's length across the billows of their outstanding skirts. "Such news, Mrs. Thrift! What do you think! After all these years Mrs. Holcomb's going to have a ba----" "My _dear_!" interrupted Mrs. Thrift, hastily; and raised a significant eyebrow in the direction of the slim figure bent over her sewing in the window-nook. Mrs. Perry coughed apologetically. "Oh! I didn't see----" "Charlotte dear, leave the room."