The Pleasant Street Partnership | Page 6

entertained Charlotte with stories of this same young lady who, it
turned out, lived just across the street in a house distinguished from the
rest of the block by a garden at one side. According to Mrs. Wellington
she was beautiful and rich, and if one more touch were needed to make
her an irreproachable heroine, the long illness from which she was then
beginning to recover supplied it. Watching at the window, Charlotte
had the pleasure of seeing her carried out for a drive once or twice, but
she never had a glimpse of her face.
Putting two and two together, she became quite sure that this Miss
Carpenter was the rose which was out of reach; but though she was on
the point of it several times, she never quite dared to question Cousin
Francis about her.
Charlotte had woven a charming romance with these slender threads,

being at the romantic age when real life is seen beneath the lime-light
of fairyland. Was it any wonder things seemed dull here in Kenton
Terrace?
These entertaining memories being for the time exhausted, her thoughts
turned to the grievance that had sent her downstairs with such
vehemence,--a thrilling, fascinating story taken from her at the most
critically exciting point.
"I cannot allow you to read novels when you are going to school," Aunt
Caroline had said; adding, "and this book is not at all the sort of thing
for a little girl."
At the recollection Charlotte put her hand to her hair. Little girl, indeed!
When people wished to be disagreeable, they reminded you that you
were a little girl.
"I have always read what I pleased," she insisted, relinquishing the
book unwillingly.
"I cannot understand Mrs. Brent's allowing it; but however that may
have been, while you are with us your Aunt Virginia and I will exercise
some supervision over what you read."
Questions about the owner of the novel followed, and here was another
grievance. It had been lent to Charlotte by one of her schoolmates, a
girl with fluffy yellow hair and many rings, whom after a week's
acquaintance,--to use her own phrase,--she simply adored. Her name
was Lucile Lyle--in itself adorable--and the intimacy with her had
resulted in Charlotte becoming Carlotta.
"Lyle?" Aunt Virginia repeated questioningly.
"Don't you remember Maggie McKay, Virginia? This is her daughter,"
was Aunt Caroline's reply. To Charlotte she said, "To-morrow I shall
give you this book to return, and while of course I wish you to be polite,
I do not wish you to be intimate with this girl."

"I don't care what she says, I shall read it, and be as intimate as I please
with Lucile," Charlotte told herself; which goes to show that Mr.
Landor was right when he felt she needed different training.
And now having nothing else to do, she wandered to the piano, and
finding an old music book, turned its pages, playing snatches of
"Monastery Bells" and "Listen to the Mocking-bird." She was putting a
good deal of feeling into "I'm a Pilgrim, and I'm a Stranger," when a
sound behind caused her to start.
"You have a pretty touch, my dear," said Aunt Virginia. "We have been
out to Marat's greenhouse, and I have brought you some roses." She
laid them on the piano as she spoke, and slipped away before Charlotte
could make any response.
Was it a peace offering?
CHAPTER FOURTH
MISS WILBUR
Miss Wilbur was perplexed to the point of annoyance, a state of mind
most unusual with her.
She was by nature a serene person, quite content with her easy,
uneventful life. The outside world she faced with a timid reserve which
had not diminished with years and indulgence, finding her life in her
family circle and the round of small cares, her flowers and her
embroidery. She disliked responsibility, and except in what she
considered matters of principle was inclined to distrust her own
judgment. She was full of family loyalty, and had been satisfied to look
on from her place in the background, while her more clever and
ambitious sisters and brothers one by one passed from the home into
the world.
Naturally enough she had not married. She had not cared to, and had
never given any one the opportunity to combat this indifference. Most
people liked her, but she had few intimate friends, having apparently no

desire to be singled out in any way, and yet she was warmly
affectionate. In truth Miss Virginia was an elusive sort of person,
sometimes allowing a glimpse of herself in all her unselfish sweetness,
and then, presto! her reserve had taken alarm, the vision was gone.
She was conventional, made so by her environment; yet her failings,
many of them, so her sister Caroline declared, were those of an
untrained child.