Mary could not help thinking that this fate was one likely to follow Miss Meeks as long as she retained the infirmities of mortality; but she said nothing, and busied herself with the basket of patchwork on which the youngest children were learning to use their fingers. She had had too plain and too recent a view of her own faults and infirmities to be very hard on those of other people. CHAPTER NINTH. THE STORM BREAKS. MISS MEEKS was right. It was with no pleasant anticipations that Calista took her seat in the rickety chaise which her aunt had sent for her. Old David, who drove, was evidently in a state of deep and dire offence, and nothing could be got out of him except that Miss Priscy was in one of her tantrums, and if Chloe was a-going to stand such goings on any longer, he wasn't. Calista alighted and went straight up the back stairs to her own room, hoping for a few minutes of solitude in which to collect her spirits. She was disappointed. The door of a certain store-room opposite her own, which was usually kept fast locked, was open, and in it stood Miss Priscilla, clearly in a "tantrum" of the worst sort. Her face was flushed, her cap half off her head, and her gray hair all in disorder. Opposite her stood Miss Druett, more disturbed in appearance than was at all usual with her. Miss Priscilla faced round as Calista came across the passage, and caught her by the arm with a grip that seemed to crush the very bone. "So, here she is," she said, through her set teeth. "This fine young lady, who prowls about the house, prying and meddling, to see what she can steal. A worthy daughter of Richard Stanfield and his low-born scheming wife!" "Take your hand off my arm, Aunt Priscilla!" said Calista, in a voice which sounded strange to herself. "Do you hear me?" Miss Priscilla released her arm; but it was only to pour out a renewed flood of abuse, directed to Calista herself, her father and mother, Miss McPherson, and every one else for whom Calista had any regard, or with whom she had any connection. At last, as she paused to take breath, Calista said coolly,— "Well, now, I should like to know what all this is about?" "About!" Miss Priscilla fairly gasped. "You dare to ask such a question?" "It does not take any particular bravery that I know of," answered Calista, whose own blood was up by this time. "When one sees an old lady raving like a mad woman, one naturally likes to know the reason, if she has any." "Calista!" said Miss Druett, warningly. "Tell me, you—you spy and traitor—did you not go into the back parlor and pull over the book-cases, and into my father's room? Tell me this instant. Dare you deny it?" "Why should I deny it?" asked Calista. "Where was the harm? I was here alone, and I went to look for something to amuse myself with, and to see what there was in the house." "And what did you carry off? What did you steal?"