her Aunt Helen's approval and aid, she secured a place as chambermaid and waitress in a summer hotel. Good wages were offered and accepted, and then Molly wrote frankly and fully to her father.

She explained that she could not submit to be treated as a dependent, or as an idiot; that in the home she claimed the right of a grown-up woman to freedom of movement as to her comings and goings, and that she also felt that she was within her rights in requesting either to be given an allowance, or paid a salary for her housekeeping service. She did not seek to return. The boys were now men; her father in his prime, and no one needed her. She needed herself-needed room to grow, to become an all-round woman. If she did come back, she must have an environment in which she could be contented.

John Petrie fumed and raged when he read this letter. He tossed it across the table to John Junior, who gravely commented on it, saying: "Good for Molly! She is very reasonable!"

Cousin Ellen, stepping briskly about the house, observed: "I'm thankful Mary has some Petrie grit. I was afraid, seeing how she let herself be imposed on, John, that she was all Kirkwood. But she's like us, and she'll get through!"

It ended, finally, in John Senior hauling down his colors and surrendering unconditionally. Six months later, Molly came home to a freshly papered and painted house-a house renovated and brightened and properly equipped, between the good roof and the dry cellar, upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber. And the minister's wife, when she went to call, kissed Molly with tears in her eyes, though she never said a word; and when she reached home, flew to the study, and gave her wondering husband a good, big hug. "John Petrie's had a change of heart!" she said.

MRS. ANTHONY

YOU surely won't lend that woman your lace shawl,

"Y Dorothy!"

Dorothy Milburn was taking a folded shawl out of a box. The shawl had tissue-paper wrapped around it. A quaint perfume, something like sandal-wood, was diffused through the room, as she shook the soft folds out, and looked lovingly at the shawl, her most cherished article of dress.

"I don't want to lend it, Matty. I hate lending my things. They never seem so nice after somebody else has worn them. And Mrs. Anthony is so careless, and will let it trail in the dirt, and perhaps keep it a week, yet I've got to let her have it. I simply haven't the moral courage to deny her anything she wishes to borrow."

"Well, I would. She's hypnotized you. If I thought as much of my clothes as you do, I'd see a neighbor farther than next door before I'd let her go into society in my finery. She's spoiling the Egyptians for fair, Dorothy, and you are her chief victim."

Meanwhile, Dorothy, with a rueful glance at her lace shawl, folded it again, and carried it out on the porch, where a little girl was waiting.

"Here, Ellen, tell your Aunt Hannah she is welcome, but that I shall need this myself tomorrow, so please bring it back early."

"Yes'm," said the child, flitting down the garden walk. Next neighbors though the Milburns and the Anthonys were, there was a wide space of lawn and orchard and garden between them. It was in the Far South, and while winter was still holding the North in its icy grasp, Florida

was basking in the warm sunshine, mocking-birds were singing in the boughs, oranges were golden globes of luscious honey, while the blossoms on some of the trees scented the air with their heavenly perfume, and roses were blooming everywhere. The Milburns were strangers in the land, renting their cottage for a season. Mrs. Anthony owned the estate, and received a generous monthly rent for this house from her Northern tenants. Incidentally, she owned them, too, borrowing from their pantry and refrigerator whatever she needed for her table, and shamelessly annexing, under the guise of a loan, anything in Dorothy's wardrobe that suited her fancy. Small wares she did not trouble herself to return. Big things now and then came back, in more or less disorder and disrepair.

Mattie Deane was Dorothy's cousin from Vermont, paying her a month's visit. She was frankly aghast at the impositions to which Mrs. Milburn continually submitted, and could hardly persuade herself to be even civil to the persistent borrower when she called, as she frequently did, as ingenuous and innocent as any child.

Black lace shawls are at present used chiefly for flounces and drapery; but a few years ago they were worn with pride by many fastidious women. On a tall, graceful figure, over a delicate toilette, they were elegant additions to costume. A dumpy, bantam-sort of woman could not carry such a garment to advantage, and Mrs. Anthony was of that type, short, stout, puffing, panting, a little steam-tug of a woman, poor as a church mouse, and vain as a peacock. Fine feathers she must have, and she never minded at all if they happened to be borrowed plumes.

The lace shawl went into a boat that evening, and an end of it, falling over the side, was dipped in the water, and drenched.

"Hannah, you are ruining that pretty shawl of yours!" said a friend sitting opposite her. "It is half over the edge of the boat."

"Mighty glad you told me!" cried Mrs. Anthony. Her brother Jim, a gruff old fellow, who made mal apropos speeches from sheer bluntness and rough honesty, called out as he bent to the oars.

"Whose is it anyhow, Hannah? 'Tisn't yours, is it?"

The lady made no reply. She was annoyed that Jim "gave her away," as she phrased it, and vexed that she had injured the shawl by wetting it. Why had she worn the thing at all? A warm wrap would have been more to the purpose, for, though the day had been sultry, the night was growing chill. She shivered.

"Here, Nan," and her brother's voice was decisive, "take that cobweb off directly, and slip your arms into this peajacket. First thing you know you'll have a chill, and then a spell of break-bone fever. We can't afford that."

She took the jacket, folding up the shawl and laying it on her lap. She wished the hateful thing were safe where it belonged. Presently they were all talking and laughing again, and somebody had a mandolin and they sang. By the time they came back to the wharf, Mrs. Anthony had entirely forgotten Mrs. Milburn's shawl, and as she stepped to the landing, it slipped away unperceived and fell down, down, down, spreading out like seaweed at last at the bottom of the St. John's River. Mrs. Anthony never gave it a second thought. Until she reached home and was ready for bed, it did not come into her head. Then she began to wonder how she should explain the catastrophe to Dorothy Milburn. For For it was an expensive article and its owner would be angry at its loss.

"But probably it's in the boat," she reflected, and resolved to see about it early in the morning. She slept the tranquil sleep of the just.

Breakfast time came. The Milburns had passed the fruit and the cereal stages, and were sipping coffee and eating rolls, when a messenger came from Mrs. Anthony.

"Please, Mrs. Milburn, Aunt Hannah says she hopes you found your shawl safe."

"No, dear. Did your aunt return it last evening ?” "She didn't say. She said she thought it couldn't get lost out on the veranda, under the blue sofa pillow."

"Is it possible," exclaimed Mattie, "that she is so wretchedly irresponsible as to return a valuable garment in that makeshift of a way? Under the blue sofa pillow indeed! It's good luck if it hasn't been stolen."

Word was sent that the shawl was missing. Mrs. Anthony returned a note of the deepest regret and apology, and refrained from borrowing anything for a week. Miss Mattie passed her on the street with a cold nod, but she looked so grieved and embarrassed that Dorothy's gentle heart was touched, and she stopped and consoled her.

"Never mind, Mrs. Anthony," said the unfortunate owner-of-pretty-things-that-were-lendable, "accidents will happen. Think no more about it." In her heart Dorothy knew that her pleasure in the shawl would never have been quite the same, once it had been trailed around by her neighbor. Its loss was the reward of her weakness.

A few days passed. Sunday morning came. Dorothy was dressing for church.

Mrs. Anthony's little niece appeared.

"Please, Mrs. Milburn, will you kindly lend Aunt Hannah your prayer-book?"

Dorothy frowned.

Mattie Deane laughed.

"Unless you are an absolute heathen, Dorothy, you cannot refuse the loan of a prayer-book."

"I loathe lending my devotional books."

"I loathe lending any books, but when it comes to a Bible or a prayer-book, I conquer my aversion. Here, let the little damsel take this to her relative."

She picked up a worn and dingy prayer-book and hymnal combined. But Dorothy flew to its rescue.