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Updated: May 28, 2025
Mixter, who had clasped his arms round his knees and was watching my companion's demonstrative graces in solemn fascination. She presently saw that I was observing him; she glanced at me with a little bold explanatory smile. "You know, he adores me," she murmured, putting her nose into her tapestry again. I expressed the promptest credence, and she went on. "He dreams of becoming my lover!
Yes, it's his dream. He has read a French novel; it took him six months. But ever since that he has thought himself the hero, and me the heroine!" Mr. Mixter had evidently not an idea that he was being talked about; he was too preoccupied with the ecstasy of contemplation. At this moment Caroline Spencer came out of the house, bearing a coffee-pot on a little tray.
"Under the leetle tree," she added, for the benefit of Miss Spencer. Then she gave me a sort of salutation, and a "Monsieur!" with which she swept away again, followed by the young man. Caroline Spencer stood there with her eyes fixed upon the ground. "Who is that?" I asked. "The Countess, my cousin." "And who is the young man?" "Her pupil, Mr. Mixter."
Daggett, cooling her flushed face with slow sweeps of the big turkey-feather fan Mrs. Dix handed her. "Ain't she just the sweetest girl always thinking of other folks! I never see anything like her." A subtle expression of reserve crept over the faces of the attentive women. Mrs. Mixter tasted the contents of her glass critically.
An' I was thinking if you was to come down to the Ladies' Aid on Friday afternoon it meets at Mrs. Mixter's this week, at two o'clock; you know where Mrs. Mixter lives, don't you? Well; anyway, Mrs. Solomon Black does, an' she generally comes. But I know lots of the ladies has pieces of that furniture; and most of them would be mighty glad to get rid of it.
Mixter, "what d' you s'pose she's got under all that tissue paper?" Mrs. Solomon Black set the great cake, still veiled, in the middle of the table; then she straightened herself and looked from one to the other of the eager, curious faces gathered around. "There!" she said. "I feel now 's 'o' I could dror m' breath once more. I ain't joggled it once, so's t' hurt, since I started from home."
Mixter, and you get back to bed, says I, for Aunt Abby had been layin' down considerable lately, though somehow she contrived to do the work. "'I'm well enough, says she. 'Don't you think she had better have the doctor, Miss Anderson? "'The doctor, says I, 'I think YOU had better have the doctor.
He was horribly annoyed and perplexed, but his manner was kind, for the memory of poor little Stella Mixter with her shower of blond curls was strong upon him, and there was something harrowingly pathetic about the combination of little, veinous hands twitching nervously in the folds of the blue gingham, the painstaking frizzes, the pale, screwed little face, and the illogical feminine brain.
Fulsom, from between puckered lips; "she didn't lose no money off Andrew Bolton." "An' she didn't get none, neither, when it come t' dividin' up," Mrs. Mixter reminded her. "That's so," assented Mrs. Fulsom, as she followed in pretty Mrs. Mixter's wake to greet the newly-married pair. "My! ain't you proud o' her," whispered Abby Daggett to Maria Dodge.
Aunt Sibylla Cradlebow accepted the lifeless phrase with something almost like a smile of disdain in her magnificent eyes. "Oh, it's like everything else," she whispered. "It's a mixter! It's a mixter!" Once the door of the little bedroom opened softly, and Emily appeared on the scene. "He's got most to the end of his rope," she said, dryly, in answer to the inquiring faces lifted to her own.
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