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THIS STORY IS TOLD BY

THE NEXT NEIGHBOR

AND IS CALLED

THE VICE-CONSORT

The red thrush seemed now to be part of the pleasantness of the garden. Whether he was drawn to the lilac-bushes by the sweet memory of his former home, or whether he was keeping a tryst with his mate of the nesting season and was calling her to come to him, or whether his coming was pure caprice, of course John Gayther could not know. But every day he came; and when the sky was clear he sang his merry song; and even when the clouds were overshadowing he could not help uttering little trills of melody. After a time he would fly away; but he left a note of gladness in John’s heart that stayed there all day.

The bird did not seem in the least disturbed by the talk on the terrace. If the sound of the voices reached him at all it must have been as a low murmur, and perhaps he liked it. The family now timed their visits to the summer-house, when they were able to go there, by the red thrush; and he seldom disappointed them. It so happened, however, one morning when they were all there, that the lilacs gave forth no sound. They waited for the accustomed music, and a hush fell upon them. They were silent for some time, and then the Old Professor spoke:

“I see John Gayther below the terrace. Can’t we have a story, if we cannot have a song?”

John was called up at once, and the Next Neighbor accosted him gayly: “If you had known that I am going to tell a story you would have walked faster.”

John answered her with a pleasant smile. He liked the Next Neighbor. He liked the kind of mind she had, for it was thoroughly imbued with an anxious desire to do her duty in this world in the manner in which that duty showed itself to her. He liked her because she was fond of the Daughter of the House. He liked her because she considered her husband to be the handsomest, best, and cleverest man in the world. Perhaps John would have liked this trait best of all if he had not clearly seen that she held in reserve an opinion that this husband would move on a still higher plane if he would place more value on her opinions and statements.

“This is the first time you have favored us,” he said courteously.

“Well,” she said, “I knew the time would come when I would be called upon, and I could tell many a story about things that have happened to me. I am not exactly the heroine of this tale, but I am intimately concerned in its happenings, and shall tell it in my own way.

“Before I was married I used to feel that all we have to do in this world is to grow up like grass or clover-blossoms, and to perform our parts by being just as green or as sweet-smelling as our natures allow. But I do not think that way now. Along comes a cow, and our careers are ended. Of course we cannot get out of the way of our fate any more than grass can get out of the way of a cow; but it often happens that we can accommodate ourselves to our misfortunes. We can be content to being nibbled close; we can spring up again from the roots; or we can patiently wait until we blossom again the next summer.

“It was about a year after I was married that I began to think about such things. We were spending a fortnight at the country house of one of my old friends, Mrs. Cheston; and although Bernard, my husband, was away most of the time, fishing with Mr. Cheston, we were enjoying ourselves very much. There was a village not far away where there were some very nice people, so that we had a good deal of pleasant social life, and it was not long before I became quite well acquainted with some of the village families.