V.

      Ludlow found his friend Burton smoking on his porch when he came back from the fair, and watching with half-shut eyes the dust that overhung the street. Some of the farmers were already beginning to drive home, and their wheels sent up the pulverous clouds which the western sun just tinged with red; Burton got the color under the lower boughs of the maple grove of his deep door-yard.

      "Well," he called out, in a voice expressive of the temperament which kept him content with his modest fortune and his village circumstance, when he might have made so much more and spent so much more in the world outside, "did you get your picture?"

      Ludlow was only half-way up the walk from the street when the question met him, and he waited to reach the piazza steps before he answered.

      "Oh, yes, I think I've got it." By this time Mrs. Burton had appeared at the hall door-way, and stood as if to let him decide whether he would come into the house, or join her husband outside. He turned aside to take a chair near Burton's, tilted against the wall, but he addressed himself to her.

      "Mrs. Burton, who is rather a long-strung, easy-going, good-looking, middle-aged lady, with a daughter about fifteen years old, extremely pretty and rather peppery, who draws?"

      Mrs. Burton at once came out, and sat sidewise in the hammock, facing the two men.

      "How were they dressed?"

      Ludlow told as well as he could; he reserved his fancy of the girl's being like a hollyhock.

      "Was the daughter pretty?"

      "Very pretty."

      "Dark?"

      "Yes, 'all that's best of dark and bright.'"

      "Were they both very graceful?"

      "Very graceful indeed."

      "Why it must be Mrs. Saunders. Where did you see them?"

      "In the Art Department."

      "Yes. She came to ask me whether I would exhibit some of Cornelia's drawings, if I were she."

      "And you told her you would?" her husband asked, taking his pipe out for the purpose.

      "Of course I did. That was what she wished me to tell her."

      Burton turned to Ludlow. "Had they taken many premiums?"

      "No; the premiums had been bestowed on the crazy quilts and the medley pictures—what extraordinarily idiotic inventions!—and Miss Saunders was tearing down her sketches in the next section. One of them slipped through on the floor, and they came round after it to where I was."

      "And so you got acquainted with Mrs. Saunders?" said Mrs. Burton.

      "No. But I got intimate," said Ludlow. "I sympathized with her, and she advised with me about her daughter's art-education."

      "What did you advise her to do?" asked Burton.

      "Not to have her art-educated."

      "Why, don't you think she has talent?" Mrs. Burton demanded, with a touch of resentment.

      "Oh, yes. She has beauty, too. Nothing is commoner than the talent and beauty of American girls. But they'd better trust to their beauty."

      "I don't think so," said Mrs. Burton, with spirit.

      "You can see how she's advised Mrs. Saunders," said Burton, winking the eye next Ludlow.

      "Well, you mustn't be vexed with me, Mrs. Burton," Ludlow replied to her. "I don't think she'll take my advice, especially as I put it in the form of warning. I told her how hard the girl would have to work: but I don't think she quite understood. I told her she had talent, too; and she did understand that; there was something uncommon in the child's work; something—different. Who are they, Mrs. Burton?"

      "Isn't there!" cried Mrs. Burton. "I'm glad you told the poor thing that. I thought they'd take the premium. I was going to tell you about her daughter. Mrs. Saunders must have been awfully disappointed."

      "She didn't seem to suffer much," Ludlow suggested.

      "No," Mrs. Burton admitted, "she doesn't suffer much about anything. If she did she would have been dead long ago. First, her husband blown up by his saw-mill boiler, and then one son killed in a railroad accident, and another taken down with pneumonia almost the same day! And she goes on, smiling in the face of death——"

      "And looking out that he doesn't see how many teeth she's lost," Burton prompted.

      Ludlow laughed at the accuracy of the touch.

      Mrs. Burton retorted, "Why shouldn't she? Her good looks and her good nature are about all she has left in the world, except this daughter."

      "Are they very poor?" asked Ludlow, gently.

      "Oh, nobody's very poor in Pymantoning," said Mrs. Burton. "And Mrs. Saunders has her business,—when she's a mind to work at it."

      "I suppose she has it, even when she hasn't a mind to work at it," said Burton, making his pipe purr with a long, deep inspiration of satisfaction. "I know I have mine."

      "What is her business?" asked Ludlow.

      "Well, she's a dressmaker and milliner—when she is." Mrs. Burton stated the fact with the effect of admitting it. "You mustn't suppose that makes any difference. In a place like Pymantoning, she's 'as good as anybody,' and her daughter has as high social standing. You can't imagine how Arcadian we are out here."

      "Oh, yes, I can; I've lived in a village," said Ludlow.

      "A New England village, yes; but the lines are drawn just as hard and fast there as they are in a city. You have to live in the West to understand what equality is, and in a purely American population, like this. You've got plenty of independence,