were sitting on the grass under one of the tall elms on the lawn.
Her gown was of some black woollen stuff, figured with green, and
its short, full skirt fell in voluminous folds over her large
hoops. A white muslin cape covered her shoulders; and her head was
adorned with a yellow straw shaker bonnet, in the depths of which
her wrinkled face, with its pointed chin and bright eyes, looked
like the face of some mammoth specimen of the cat tribe, an effect
that was increased by her high, shrill voice. Black lace mitts
covered her hands; and she carried, point upward, a venerable
brown umbrella, loosely rolled up, and held in place with two
rubber bands.

"Is your ma at home?" she asked Polly abruptly.

"She's in the house," answered Polly, rising with some reluctance.
"I'll go and call her. You stay here, Jean."

"Jean who?" inquired Miss Bean, bringing her spectacles to bear on
Jean's blooming face.

"Jean Dwight, ma'am," said Jean demurely, in spite of a strong
desire to laugh.

"Bill Dwight's daughter?"

Jean nodded, while her color rose at the rough abbreviation of her
father's name.

"I want to know! He was a son of old Enos Dwight and Melissy
Pettigrew; and I can remember the time, and not so very long ago,