Everybody's Business by Agnes Giberne

THOUGH Miss Perkins might say to Mildred, "Don't think," with reference to her isolation in the world, Miss Perkins made no effort herself to refrain from thinking. Without friends, and without a home. Did that also mean, without any means of livelihood?

It might easily do so. Miss Perkins was greatly exercised in spirit on this question. She had offered, under a sudden gust of pity, to take the shipwrecked wanderer for a few days, looking upon the arrangement as a transitory one; and when Millie, instead of rallying quickly, became worse, needing constant attention, she had buckled bravely to the task, devoting her time and her energies, with really few complaints.

She had received a cheque for five guineas from Mr. Gilbert, given out of his own slender resources; but five guineas would not cover the additional outlay in which she was involved; and though she know that others might come forward, she knew also that such coming forward was doubtful. People in general are glad enough to put off trouble and expense upon another. Money in Old Maxham could not be regarded as a plentiful commodity; and those who possessed any considerable amount of it-Mr. Mokes, for example, was credited with large savings-were by no means too fond of parting with the same.

For a few days, or for two or three weeks, Miss Perkins had met her responsibilities pluckily. But Mildred's words had now opened out a new vista. If Mildred had no home, no friends, no money, no means of livelihood, would Miss Perkins be expected to make her a permanent inmate of Periwinkle Cottage, without remuneration? That was the question.

Miss Perkins had begun to view her own action in the matter as foolish and impulsive; though she would have been the last to acknowledge as much to anybody else; and though, it is to be hoped, she would have done precisely the same over again, had the condition of affairs been repeated.

For a while these doubts only troubled her when she was away from Millie. In Mildred's presence such sensations had no weight. But as days went on, a feeling of provocation even there sometimes assailed Miss Perkins. Mildred was very feeble still, with no energy to arouse herself, or to think of plans and ways and means; and day after day she lay, spiritless and pale, just moving from the bed to an easy-chair, apparently content with her shelter and not in the least degree anxious as to how or by whom her needs were supplied. She was too utterly saddened to have room in her mind for personal cares. Miss Perkins began to think that the time was come when Mildred ought to bestir herself and ought to be troubled.

Another element also was entering into the question. Jessie had always been a light-hearted maiden; partly because life had hitherto shown to her chiefly its sunny side; but she was by no means without a share of that true womanliness, which happily few women entirely lack, and which means being drawn by the sight of suffering.

Only the most spoilt and the most selfish of women are repelled by sickness and sorrow; for in true woman-nature, there is a natural craving to give help where help is needed.

Miss Perkins had pitied most when Mildred lay powerless and unconscious. Jessie pitied most now that Mildred was awake to her own lonely and forlorn condition. And Jessie not only pitied, but loved. She gave her warm girl-heart first to Hero, and then unreservedly to Hero's mistress. Not many days passed from Millie's first awakening into full sense, before Jessie found an absolute delight in knowing her. To be left in charge of Mildred, it did not matter how long, was the best thing that could happen.

Miss Perkins perceived this, and the iron entered into her soul. She had done much for Jessie-had kept her from destitution, had given her a home, had supplied her requirements, had provided her with necessary teaching; but with all the amount of her practical kindnesses, she had never won her niece's heart after this fashion. If Jessie loved Miss Perkins, it was with a duty-love. There was no real clinging affection, no delight in Miss Perkins' presence, no craving for Miss Perkins' smile. The most Jessie commonly hoped for was to avoid a "fuss," to please her aunt so far as not to be scolded or grumbled at.

To see this passive stranger winning in a week what Miss Perkins had failed to win in fourteen or fifteen years was a bitter pill. Miss Perkins did not make allowance for the eccentricities of a young girl's fancy; still less did she allow for the repellent effects of her own dry manner and uncertain temper. She said nothing, and only nursed her annoyance in private; but the jealousy threatened to colour her after-relations with Mildred. As the invalid grew stronger, Miss Perkins became more tart; reverting to the mode of speech and action usually characteristic of her, with some added acidity from the cause above mentioned.

Jessie saw the change, and did not divine its root. She never dreamt of such a possibility as that Miss Perkins could be greedy of warmer love from the niece whom she systematically snubbed, and whom she always seemed to regard as an unwelcome burden.

"Aunt Barbara care! " she would have exclaimed, had the idea been suggested to her. "Oh, that isn't her way at all. She only wants not to be bothered."

But it was very much Miss Perkins' way, only always below the surface.

Mr. Gilbert was still entirely laid aside, able to sleep little with the ceaseless pain of his crushed arm, and altogether in a state of great exhaustion. His sister had come from a distance to assist in nursing him; and though he had repeatedly inquired after Millie, and had sent many kind messages of interest in her condition, he was not yet fit for callers; so nobody had seen him except his own household and the doctor. The "mending" in his arm was exceedingly slow; and he had had a succession of relapses.