The Pleasant Street Partnership | Page 5

care," added Charlotte, under her breath.
When the door had closed behind them, she ran to the window and
watched as they went down the walk and entered the waiting carriage.
Two very charming ladies, an unprejudiced observer might have
pronounced them. A little precise in their elegance, perhaps, but
pleasant to look upon, especially Aunt Caroline, from head to foot a
shimmer of silver gray. Aunt Caroline was Mrs. Millard, the widow of
an army officer, and Charlotte had expected to like her best; but after
all, Aunt Virginia, who was only Miss Wilbur, had proved the least
objectionable.
She was not so handsome, but seemed kinder; and when she laughed,
Charlotte always felt a little thrill of sympathy. When Aunt Caroline
laughed, it was in a reserved, controlled manner. Charlotte had arrived
at the conclusion that Aunt Virginia stood in awe of her sister; and this
might have been a bond of union if it had been possible to become
really acquainted, but Aunt Virginia held aloof. It was almost as if she
were afraid of Charlotte, too. Still there was something rather nice
about her. Charlotte hardly realized how often she returned to this
opinion.
When they had driven away, she went to the library,--a less formidable
apartment than the drawing-room,--and making herself comfortable in
an arm-chair by the window, began to consider what she should say to

Cousin Francis, for she had decided that pouring out her soul in a letter
would, after all, be more satisfactory than tears.
She looked out across the garden to where, on the other side of Pleasant
Street, stood the little corner shop with its gray-green shingles, its
upper windows all aglow in the afternoon sunshine. Before it stood a
furniture van, and Charlotte idly watched the unloading.
She had made up her mind that life here was going to be hopelessly
dull. She swung her foot listlessly, and, forgetting her letter, thought of
Aunt Cora's home in a gay little suburb where something was always
going on,--teas, dinners, receptions, where, although in the background,
she had had her share of the excitement.
At the Landors', where she sometimes spent several weeks while Aunt
Cora, worn by her strenuous social life, went down to Atlantic City to
recuperate, it was much quieter. And still she loved to be there. The
elder Mr. Landor was a busy lawyer, his son Francis a literary person,
and they lived in a tall, brown stone house in the old part of
Philadelphia, among any number of others exactly like it. It was a
man's house, overflowing with books and pictures, and yet showing the
lack of a woman's presence. Charlotte was very fond of her guardian
and his son, who petted and made much of her on the occasions of her
visits. She was conscious, however, that Uncle Landor was not quite
satisfied with her. He had a way of looking at her long and steadily
through his glasses, as if he were studying her.
Cousin Frank, perhaps because he had no responsibility in the matter,
treated her as a comrade in a way that was flattering. She was, of
course, an ardent admirer of his stories and verses, and upon one or two
rare occasions had been made blissfully happy by being allowed to
listen to one fresh from the typewriter. But most interesting of all had
been a discovery made on her last visit in the spring. Between the
leaves of a manuscript she had been allowed to read she found some
verses beginning:--
"I love her whether she love me or no, Just as I love the roses where
they blow In fragrant crimson there beyond the wall."

There was something more about roses being sweet although out of
reach, and teaching a lesson to his heart; but before she had quite
grasped the idea, Francis took the paper away from her with an
exclamation of impatience.
"Why should Francis have minded, unless those verses meant
something personal?" Charlotte wondered. As she thought it over, she
recalled some remarks of Aunt Cora's about a little water-color portrait
of a child in Uncle Landor's study.
"Who is this?" Mrs. Brent asked one day, pausing before it.
"That is old Peter Carpenter's granddaughter May, when she was ten
years old. He had two portraits done of her, and liking the other better,
gave this to me not long before he died."
Aunt Cora said, "Ah!" and studied it with interest. "So this is the Miss
Carpenter, is it? I presume Francis has a more recent likeness."
"I do not know that he has. We see very little of May in these days. She
is a great lady." Uncle Landor spoke as one who dismisses a subject.
Then one rainy afternoon Mrs. Wellington, the Landors' housekeeper,