[Illustration: “‘NOW, BOYS, LET’S COME AND PLAY ON THE ORGAN’”] Time did not soften her rancor. She caught cold at the concert, and for two weeks was confined to her chamber with what Mrs. Armstrong called rheumatism, but Henriette called gout. During the time she assured Mysie that what she suffered from the Armstrong organ exceeded anything that gout could inflict. “Do let me speak to Mrs. Armstrong,” begged Mysie. “I spoke to that boy, the one with the freckles, myself yesterday,” replied Henriette, “out of the window. I told him if they didn’t stop I would have them indicted.” “Why, how did you see him?” Mysie was aghast, but she dared not criticise Henriette. “He came here with a bucket of water. Said his mother saw us taking water out of the well, and it was dangerous. The impertinent woman, she actually offered to send us water from their cistern every day.” “But I think that was—was rather kind, sister, and it would be dreadful to have typhoid fever.” “I would rather _die_ of typhoid fever than have that woman bragging to her vulgar friends that she gives the Beaumonts, Governor Beaumont’s daughters, _water_! I know what her _kindness_ means.” Thus Henriette crushed Mysie. But when the organ began, and it was evident that Tim Armstrong intended to learn “Two Little Girls in Blue,” if it took him all the afternoon, Mysie rose. “Mysie,” called Henriette, “don’t you go one step to the Armstrongs’.” Mysie sat down, but in a little while she tried again. “I wish you’d let Paula, then; she is going by there every day, and she has had no dispute with them. She often stops to talk.” “Talk to whom?” said Henriette, icily. “Oh, to any of them—Tim or Pete or Mrs. Armstrong.” “Does she talk to them long?” “Oh no, not very long—just as she goes by. I think you’re mistaken, sister. They don’t think such mean things. Truly they are—nice; they seem very fond of each other, and they almost always give Paula flowers.” “What does she do with the flowers?” “She puts them in the vases, and wears them.” “Do they give her anything else?” Henriette’s tone was so awful that Mysie dropped her work. “Do they?” persisted Henriette. “They sent over the magazines a few times, but that was just borrowing, and once they—they—sent over some shortcake and some—bread.” Henriette sat bolt-upright in bed, reckless of the pain every movement gave her. “Mysilla Beaumont, do you see where your sister is drifting? Are you both crazy? But I shall put a stop to this nonsense this very day. I am going to write a note to John Perley, and you will have to take it. Bring me the paper. If there isn’t any in my desk, take some out of Pauline’s.” “Oh, Henriette,” whimpered Mysie, “_what_ are you going to do?” “You will soon see, and you will have to help me. After they have been disgraced and laughed at, we’ll see whether she will care to lean over their fence and talk to them.”