Won by her companion’s sympathetic interest, Nathalie told that they were spending the summer at Seven Pillars, up near “Peckett’s on Sugar Hill,” but she was cautious not to tell of the peculiar conditions of their stay, or of her aunt’s strange letter. Miss Whipple, as that proved to be the lady’s name, said that she had known her aunt, Mrs. Renwick, and considered her a very interesting woman, although, to be sure, she was somewhat eccentric. Nathalie also told about her Liberty Girls, a subject that was always close to her heart, and how she was going to try to teach liberty to the little settlement-boys, who were coming up to stay with her for a few weeks. The invalid, and also her sister, were both greatly interested in Nathalie’s merry chatter; for Mona had come from the kitchen and seated herself on a low stool by the feet of her sister, who would interpret to her as the girl rattled on. In return for Nathalie’s confidences she told how she and her sister, although having been born in the White Mountains, had lived since childhood in Boston. On the death of their parents, after meeting with some reverses, she explained, they had determined to come up to the old homestead and start a sweet-pea farm, as her sister was passionately fond of flowers. It was delightful work, she said, and it meant so much that was beautiful and joyous to her sister, who, of course, on account of her infirmity, was deprived of many pleasures that other people enjoyed. They had an old farm-hand who had lived with them when they were small children, who did the rough gardening, and who made the farm pay by selling the flowers to the mountain hotels. “The tea-house was my sister’s inspiration,” continued Miss Whipple, “and has always been a source of great enjoyment to us both, as so many of the young people from the hotels and boarding-houses would drop in of an afternoon for a cup of tea, or a little dance, as I always used to make it a point to be on hand to play for them. My sister,” she added a little sadly, “although deprived herself of the joys of girlhood, has always been passionately devoted to the young, and has spent any amount of labor in trying to make our little tea-room attractive. “But now, as I cannot play any more,—you see I am the victim of inflammatory rheumatism,”—she held up her bandaged hands pathetically,—“the young people do not come in as much as they did. It is a great disappointment to us both,” concluded the invalid dolefully, “although perhaps my sister is partly compensated by her work among her flowers.