Calista shook her head. "You don't know Aunt Priscilla as I do. Why, Mary, grandfather's monument is actually falling down for want of a little money laid out in repairs. I haven't much reason to be obliged to General Stanfield," continued Calista, rather as if thinking aloud, "but I believe the very first thing I do when I have the place will be to put that graveyard in order." Mary looked annoyed in her turn. "I would not think so much about that if I were you, Calista," said she. "You are not sure that the place will ever be yours. Miss Priscilla can leave it to whom she pleases, you know." "What would you think about it if you were in my place?" demanded Calista, rather fiercely. "Come, Mary, tell me something agreeable in my affairs to think about." "Well, here is the school and Miss McPherson." "Miss McPherson is just as good and kind as she can be," admitted Calista, "and the school is pleasant, and I like my lessons; but even here Aunt Priscilla annoys me all the time. Something is forever coming up to remind me how dependent and helpless I am. Aunt Priscilla won't let me have a bit of fancy work, or take music lessons, or have a penny to spend on any of the girls' little frolics." "Was that the reason you did not go to the gipsy party?" "Of course it was. I had nothing to carry." "But, Calista, you know—" "Oh, yes, I know. Miss Alice would have made something for me, but I wouldn't have that. I may be a pauper, but I won't be a beggar and a sponge like—some folks," casting a glance, as she spoke, at Antoinette, who was passing. "Well, any how, Calista, you can make the most of what lessons you have, and when you are a little older you can find a place as teacher somewhere and support yourself. And, besides," said Mary, lowering her voice a little, "you might have something else if you would. You might be looking forward to an inheritance that would never fade nor disappoint you." Calista made an impatient movement. "So you say, and I believe you really think so, but all that is nothing to me. It has no reality in it to my mind. Aunt Priscilla does not believe in any such thing. She believes in the French philosophers, and Voltaire and Rousseau are about the only authors she reads." "And you have a great respect for Miss Priscilla's opinion, of course," returned Mary, with a little touch of sarcasm. "It is quite natural you should be governed by it." Calista laughed. "It would be a reason for thinking the other way if I wanted one, which I don't. But somehow religion has no reality for me. I wouldn't have Miss McPherson hear me say so, but it is no more real to me than the Greek mythology in Magnall's questions." "I suppose that is the way with a good many people, if they had the honesty to own it," remarked Mary, thoughtfully; "at least to judge by their actions. But now tell me, Calista, are not all your best friends Christians? I have often heard you speak of Miss Malvina; was not she a Christian?"