CHAPTER XIX. Miss Diana Chillingworth was sitting in the old-fashioned porch of her

CHAPTER XIX.

Miss Diana Chillingworth was sitting in the old-fashioned porch of her old-fashioned house which opened into an old-fashioned garden in one of the suburbs of Marlborough, shelling peas. Everything about Miss Diana was old-fashioned and sweet. Her hair was dressed as she had been accustomed to wear it in her girlhood, and even the head mantua-maker of Marlborough, ardent worshiper at Fashion's shrine though she was, was forced to bow before her gentle individuality and confess that Miss Diana's taste was perfect.

She wore a morning dress of soft pearl grey, over which she had tied an apron of white lawn with a dainty ruffle of embroidery below its hem. The peas danced merrily against the sides of an old-fashioned china bowl. Miss Diana had an aesthetic repugnance to the use of tin utensils in the preparation of food.

Outside there were sweet lilies of the valley and violets and pansies, and the roses wafted long breaths of fragrance to her through the trellis work of the porch, while the morning glories hung their heads and blushed under the ardent kisses of the sun.

In the kitchen Unavella Cynthesia Crockett, her faithful and devoted "assistant" (Miss Crockett objected to the term servant upon democratic principles), moved cheerily, with a giant masterfulness which bespoke a successful initiation into the mysteries of the culinary art. All at once she shut the oven door, where three toothsome loaves were browning, and listened intently. Then she went out to interview Thomas, the butcher's boy, who came three times a week with supplies.

"The sweet-breads hez cum, Miss Di-an," she said, appearing in the porch before her mistress.

"Well, Unavella," said Miss Diana, with a pleasant smile, "you expected them, did you not? We ordered them, you know. They are very nutritious, I think."

"Hum! There's some news cum along with 'em that ain't likely to prove ez nourishin'. Tummas sez the Provident Savings Company hez busted an' the president's vamoosed."

"Dear me! I wish Thomas would not use such very forceful language," said Miss Diana. "Do you think he finds it necessary? Being a butcher, you know? I hardly understand the words. Do you think you would find them defined in Webster?"

Unavella's eyes twinkled through her gloom. "I guess Tummas ain't got much use for dictionners," she said. "He uses words that cums nearest to his feelin's. He's lost two hundred dollars, Tummas hez."

"Dear me! How very grieved I am. But a dictionary, Unavella, is the basis of all education. Thomas ought to appreciate that. 'Busted,'" she repeated the word slowly, with an instinctive shrinking from its sound, "that is a vulgar corruption of the verb to burst; but 'vamoosed,' I do not think I ever heard the term before."

"Tummas says it means to show the under side of your shoe leather."

"The under side of your shoe leather, Unavella?" Miss Diana lifted her pretty shoe and held it up for inspection. "Do you see anything wrong with that?"

The faithful soul threw her apron over her head with a sob. "Oh, Miss Di-an!" she wailed, "it means the company's all a set of cheats, an' the biggest rogue of the lot hez lit out--run away--an' taken the money the Gin'rel left you along with him."

“One work. Many languages. One reading experience.”