Alias Miss Sherlock, a drama in four acts

Front matter

KICE THIRTY-FINE CENTS

I ALIAS x,w5S SHERLOCK

BY

Act IV. — Same as Act II, three weeks later

Time of Playing. — Two hours and a half.

COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS

Lily Ann. Plain, rather severe-looking and " bossy " country woman, of about forty. A likeable character, in spite of her brusqueness. In first act she wears calico or gingham dress, with apron — regular farm " hired girl " get-up, not untidy nor too neat. In fourth act, somewhat exaggerated " going away " costume of a country bride, but by no means grotesque.

Aaron Flint. Middle-aged farmhand, quaint and comical, but not a caricature. In first act, baggy old trousers, dark shirt with suspenders, dusty boots or shoes and large straw hat. Act IV, rather conspicuous new suit, hat, etc., with brightly polished new shoes.

Mrs. Brewster. Handsome, haughty woman of the "society climber" type, about fifty or fifty-five; stately, with gray hair and attractive face. Elegant summer costume in first act; afterwards, appropriate costumes, rich and attractive, with jewels, all a bit extravagant but still in good taste.

Helen Brewster. A girl of about twenty-five, " citified " and of beauty and charm, reflecting to a degree her mother's pompous manner, but still capable of inspiring admiration, and, eventually, confidence and sympathy. Dainty dress, with hat and parasol, in Act I. Later, elegant house dresses.

Leonard Fillmore. About thirty; tall, well-built, good-looking, of a rather free, offhand manner, but genial and ingratiating. Just a slight trace of " rurahsm," but still a man of refinement and culture. Plain suits.

Sarah Newcomb. A neat, prim, but attractive woman of forty-five or thereabouts ; an " old maid," but of the sweet, " mother and home " variety. Not " green," though ingenuous and just a bit " countrified." In last three acts, on occasion assumes more of " greenness " than is really

C0STU3IES

natural to her. Act I, plain summer dress; Acts II, III and IV, a little more " dressy," but plain and appropriate.

Dick Brewster. A handsome, boyish young man of about twenty-two. Shows some evidence of fast living, but should inspire sympathy, pity, and belief in his innocence. Act I, suit in good city style, but with some signs of rough usage. Acts II and III, same or similar, but neater.

Henson. Conventional type of English butler, straight, stiff, pompous. Black suit, not necessarily livery or " evening clothes," but appropriate to his position in city house of some social distinction.

Ralph Deering. About fifty-five; wealthy man of the world, of " roue " type ; stout, florid, veneer of pohsh, but showing his true nature on provocation. Very well dressed, with stylish top-coat, stick, etc.

Henry Markham. Stern, keen-eyed man of thirtyfive or so, in plain business suit.

Officer Higgins. Police uniform, or plain dark suit.

Delphine. Young woman of stern, forbidding aspect ; pale ; light eyes, very black hair, somewhat incongruous with her natural coloring. Speaks with assumed but excellent French " accent." Act III, plain black costume, not that of the conventional stage " maid." Hair plainly combed, with no " cap." Act IV, plain street dress, with wraps, hat and veil.

ARGUMENT

Mrs. Brewster and her daughter Helen are staying on the farm of the former's sister, Sarah Newcomb. Helen is attracted by Leonard Fillmore, a young country lawyer, but her mother tells her she must accept the wealthy Mr. Deering. Dick Brewster, a likeable boy, for whom his mother has no sympathy, is implicated in a murder and comes to the farm to hide. His Aunt Sarah stands by him in his need and they all move to the city in the effort to clear his name. Fillmore takes up the case because of his love for Helen. Ralph Deering calls on Helen and sees Dick there. Deering was in the apartment when the murder was committed and calls up the police to arrest Dick in revenge for Helen's refusal to marry him. Delphine, a pretended French maid, figures in the trial, and Miss Newcomb feels that she knows more than she has told. She, therefore, investigates on her own account and Delphine confesses she committed the murder unintentionally by trying to shoot Deering, the man who wronged her. Dick is cleared; Mrs. Brewster is thwarted; and Leonard and Helen find their happiness.

NOTICE TO PROFESSIONALS

This play is published for the free use of strictly amateur companies only. Professional actors or organizations wishing to produce it, in any form or under any title, are forbidden to do so without the consent of the author, who may be addressed in care of the publishers.

Act I

SCENE. — The yard of a comfortable farm residence, in the northeastern part of New York State. The house, R., is an ancient but fine and well-preserved structure of the old homestead type. There is a porch; windows, with vines; plants, etc.; across back of stage a fence, with open gate c. ; at l., a small arbor or summer-house , on the edge of an orchard. At back a road leading to r. and l., beyond fence, and, on flat, the glimpse of rolling fields, a church spire and the roofs of a few houses scattered in the distance.

(It is the afternoon of a day in the latter part of August. At rise, Aaron Flint is heard whistling, off L. u. E. Mrs. Brewster is discovered in hammock or chair, in arbor, l., asleep, her book fallen to the ground.)

(Enter Aaron Flint, l. u. e., beyond fence, to gate c. ; almost at same moment, Lily Ann appears on porch of house. Aaron carries several letters, sealed, addressed and stamped, a newspaper or two and a good-sized parcels-post package of books, addressed. Lily Ann comes down to R. c.)

Lily Ann. That the mail, Aaron? Le's see. Quite a lot, ain't they? ( She takes letters from him.)

Aaron Flint. Should say they was. Most all for Mis' Brewster, though, 'n' a letter for her daughter. Seems t' me 'tain't nothin' but them around

ALIAS MISS SEEBL09K here, one way 'r 'nother. Wonder how much longer they're going t' stay.

LoLY Ann. Land, I d' know. Looks Hke we'd got 'em saddled onto us for Hfe. Be'n here sence June, 'n' here 'tis 'most September.

{She is closely inspecting the letters.)

Aaron. 'T 's a wonder t' me Miss Newcomb don't git tired o' board'n' 'em for nothin', 'n' havin' 'em putt'n' on secli airs 'n' all, even if they are her own sister 'n' niece. All-fired cheeky, I call it.

Lily Ann. Well, you know her — easy as all git-out. Guess I'm the one t' do most of the kickin , when y' come right down to it — all the extry work they make, with coffee took up to their rooms at nine in the mornin', " luncheon," as they call it, about half-past one, and dinner — a full meal, mind y' — at seven at night, when it's 'most time for sensible folks to be goin' t' bed. Keeps me up all hours. I must say I'm gett'n' pretty tired of it.

Aaron. I guess you be, 'n' no wonder. But, 's you say, Miss Newcomb's that easy she wouldn't say a word, if they stayed till Kingdom Come, If they ever was a saint on earth, she's one.

Lily Ann. Well, even saints git imposed on. But I suppose, bein' saints, it's up t' them not t' find any fault, even when it's rubbed in. For my part, I think even a saint ought t' have a little gumption. That some more books for her?

Aaron. Yep. Some more o' them Sherlock Holmes detectative stories she's always readin', I reckon. Must be four or five here, from the heft o' this bundle.

Lily Ann. Well, it beats all, the amount of that trash she does read — them terrible yarns, all about murders and mysteries. Land, I should think she'd be so full of murder clues 'n' everything 't she couldn't sleep nights. They'd give me the creeps if I was t' read 'em the way she does.

Aaron. Oh, I d' know. I sort o' like 'em m'self. Miss Newcomb lent me a few and they certainly 8 are hummers. I sure would like t' be one of them detectatives they tell about, with all the excitement they have, tracin' up murderers and sech. Lily Ann. Yes, a pretty detective you'd make. You'd better be gett'n' along detectin' a few chores, instead o' standin' here talkin' murder clues. Here, I'll take that bundle in the house with these letters.

{She takes package. They do not notice Mrs. Brewster, who is still asleep. Aaron gets closer to Lily Ann, " making up " to her. She seems unconscious of his intention, about to go to porch. He detains her.)

Aaron. Say, Lily Ann, what y' goin' t' do after supper?

Lily Ann. Wash the dishes, I suppose, as usual. " Dinner " I guess you mean, though — 'n' a pile of dishes it makes, too. Makes me sick!

Aaron. Say, Lily Ann, if — if I'll wipe 'em, then '11 you go 'n' take a walk?

Lily Ann. Walk? Land, I feel more Hke walkin' t' bed than anywheres else, once I git through. What do I want t' take a walk for?

Aaron. Wal, I thought mebbe you 'n' me'd jest go for a little stroll, if you'd Hke t', seein' it's moonlight 'n' all. 'T any rate, looks like it was goin' t' be a nice evenin'.

Lily Ann. I declare, Aaron Flint, you're old enough t' have more sense. Gitt'n' sentimental at your age. How many times 've I told you

Aaron. M'm — wal, you know the old sayin', " Them that loves last, loves best," so I guess it ain't too late for you 'n' me

{He attempts to kiss her; she gives him a playful slap, and starts to go up steps. Mrs. Brewster wakes and sees them. They pause, turning, as she speaks. )

Mrs, Brewster {rising, coming towards c). Perhaps, when you have finished your most unbecoming behavior, you will inform me whether any of those letters are for me.

Aaron (with an awkward bow of apology). Y-yes, ma'am, several of 'em is

Lily Ann {looking over letters, quite unperturbed). I guess some of these are for you, if your name's Mis' Brewster. (Holds out letters.)

(Exit Aaron, l. u. e.)

Mrs. Brewster (frigidly, as she takes letters). Thanks.

Lily Ann. They look mostly Uke bills, ma'am, seems t' me

Mrs. Brewster. You are entirely too familiar for a servant. I shall speak to my sister about it.

Lily Ann. Huh! I ain't afraid of anything you'll say to Miss Newcomb about me. I guess I ain't lived with her the past fourteen years without her knowin' me well enough not t' let anything you could say count, even if you are her own sister — and from " the city." I should think, the way you've been stayin' here all summer, you 'n' your daughter, 'n' been waited on 'n' everything, without payin' a cent for it, that you wouldn't have so very much to say. That's my opinion, 'f I was to express it.

(Lily Ann is on porch, in a " huff." Mrs. Brewster has crossed back to l., near seat, almost overcome by her indignation.)

Mrs. Brewster. Oh ! this is more than I can be expected to stand

Lily Ann. Well, then you can set down to it. There's a seat, right b'hind you.

(Mrs. Brewster sinks into chair, apparently about to faint. Lily Ann disdains her. Enter r. u. e., Helen Brewster and Leonard Fillmore. She carries a parasol and a bunch of wild fiotvers. )

lO

Helen {coming do-mn. Leonard stays up by gate). Why, Mother, what's the matter ? Are you ill ?

(Goes to Mrs. Brewster.)

Mrs. Brewster. I have been insulted — by that " person" there, (Indicating Lily Ann.)

(Leonard looks at Lily Ann with a knowing smile.)

Lily Ann. Land, I ain't hurt her any. Jest sayin' a few things to ease my mind. I guess she'll live through it.

(Exit Lily Ann to house, with a toss of her head and an indignant sniff. )

Leonard Fillmore (coming down to r. c). You mustn't take Lily Ann too seriously, Mrs. Brewster. She's a privileged character around here, you know.

Mrs. Brewster. I should say she is. It is insufferable, the way my sister permits that woman to domineer and make herself so offensive. I shall have her dismissed.

Leonard. M'm — well, I'm inclined to think even you couldn't have that done, Mrs. Brewster. I'm sorry if she has been rude, and I'll speak to Miss Newcomb about it, but — well, I imagine it would be about as easy to dismiss the — er — the pump, or — the barn, as Lily Ann. The farm wouldn't be complete without her.

Mrs. Brewster (changing the subject). Helen, I should like to know where you have been all this time.

Helen. We have been for a stroll, Mr. Fillmore and I. Are any of those letters for me?

Mrs. Brewster. One. (Gives Helen letter.)

Leonard. I am afraid it was largely my fault. I believe I inveigled Miss Brewster into walking rather farther than she otherwise would have done.

Mrs. Brewster. Indeed ! The persuasive powers of

ALIAS 3IJSS SHERLOCK a promising young legal light. How interesting

Helen {smiling, with a slight trace of sarcasm'). Mother ! — " promising." He has already quite " arrived," you know. He was telling me of one of his cases. What was it, Mr. Fillmore — defending a yokel whose cow is accused of infringing upon another man's property and destroying some cabbages?

Leonard. Yes — quite as important as that. I think I shall win my case, too — after a hard judicial struggle. And when I do, I shall come and claim your congratulations. {At steps.) Now, if you will excuse me, I will look for Miss Newcomb. I have a little business to transact — and at the same time I will speak to her about the offending Lily Ann.

{Exit Leonard to house, with a show of good-natured dignity. )

Mrs. Brewster. Helen ! I believe he was half laughing at us.

Helen {who is reading her letter). No doubt.

Mrs. Brewster {again seated, l.). And I should like to know what you mean by such a show of intimacy with him — a mere country lawyer. Taking a stroll with him, and

Helen. Oh, well, one has to have a little amusement in this forsaken place. Do let me entertain myself in some way. Besides, look what a reward I reaped — this beautiful bouquet.

{Puts flowers in Mrs. Brewster's lap.)

Mrs. Brewster {throwing flowers to ground). And what of me? I hope you don't think I stay here from choice? Surely, it is better than shutting ourselves up in the city, or going to some cheap boarding-house, as we would have had to do. You know Bar Harbor or Newport were out of the question. Look at these — bills, bills, bills!

Threats — lawsuits. We dare not go back to Ne-w: York, for fear of our creditors. I don't knov? what is to become of us !

Helen. We can't stay and Hve on Aunt Sarah much longer, that's certain. It is becoming unbearable.

Mrs. Brewster. If we only could have kept up appearances one more season, you might have — well, something might have turned up.

Helen {she has gone up by gate; now comes down). I suppose you mean I might have sold myself — or you might have sold me. Why not say it? I am in the market — for the highest bidder. Even you are not beyond possibilities,

Mrs. Brewster, Helen! How can you say such things to me, your own mother? I am sure I have enough to bear, without that.

Helen. I guess I am about as desperate as you are, for it seems to be up to me.

Mrs. Brewster. I — ^I don't know why you need put it in that vulgar way. But, as you say, we cannot stay here much longer. Look at these. (Showing bills.) If we go back to New York

Helen. There's Dick. If only he could do something

Mrs. Brewster. Dick ! You know how much good he is to me. I did hope, when he secured that position in the bank at forty dollars a week, that he might at least cease to be a worry to me. But no

Helen. Nevertheless, he is still your son and my brother.

Mrs. Brewster. Much good such a son is to me. I have practically disowned him, — you know it is nearly a year since we have even seen him. No, we must think of something more reliable than Dick, my dear. Now, there was — m'm — Mr. Deering

Helen. Yes — one of the likely bidders. Well, if it will be any satisfaction to you, this letter is from him.

Mrs. Brewster. Helen ! — and does he

Helen. Yes, Mother, I believe you really have a chance to sell me at a very good price.

Mrs. Brewster. Helen! I refuse to listen to such talk. You know he is a gentleman — he is worth millions, — you should consider yourself a very lucky girl.

Helen. I suppose I am, so far as your idea of luck is concerned. But that man — old, gross — the very thought of him repels me,

Mrs. Brewster. Why, Mr. Deering is not more than forty-five — well, or eight — or nine, perhaps, — and think of all you could command as his wife. But the question is, at present, how we are to manage to get back to New York, pay our bills, and keep up appearances until it can be brought about. I know of just one way — my sister

Helen. What! — Aunt Sarah — that simple, countrified old maid ? Pray, what could she do ?

Mrs. Brewster. She could help us out of all our difficulties, if she would. You may not know it, my dear, but Sarah Newcomb is rich. At least, she must have a great deal of money. When our father died, Sarah and I came in for everything he had. He had run this farm for many years, as his father had before him, and had made money, which he invested and increased. When he made his will, I chose cash, and, in time, received ten thousand dollars. Sarah kept the farm as her share and has rusticated here ever since, while I — well, I .went to the city, met your father — married him — and entered upon the life that appealed to me. Your father's death left me

well provided for, but Oh, well, it has all

vanished, while Sarah, — her money must have accumulated and increased. So, you see, my dear — she is rich.

Helen. Well, I must say, it is the last thing I ever would have thought of. But even so — do you think you could manage it — or her?

Mrs. Brewster. It would have to be carefully done, of course. .By the way, that Mr. Fillmore is

ALIAS MISS SEEBLOCK her legal adviser, I believe. He has charge of all her affairs — he'd know just how much she is worth, and she would accept his advice. M'm — perhaps, after all, you'd better be a bit nice to him.

Helen. You want me to pump him — to exert an insidious influence, as it were. Oh, very well. Leave it to me. He's rather too nice a fellow to be made a fool of, even if I can do it, but, as you say, something must be done. Anything is better than the poorhouse — and oblivion.

Mrs. Brewster. And, in the meantime, don't forget that it would be good policy to keep on the right side of all these people — to make as good an impression as possible

Helen. Oh, yes, we may as well begin to do the thing up right, even if it is rather late in the day.

Mrs. Brewster. Helen ! sometimes you shock me by your absolute vulgarity. Please do not use such expressions. We shall do nothing dishonorable.

Helen. I hope not. But I must say, the very idea is repellent to me. I wish it were well over,

{Enter Lily Ann from house, to porch, her hands rolled up in apron.)

Lily Ann. Say! Miss Newcomb wants t' know

what you think you'd like t' have for supper — or

" dinner " I suppose you'd call it. Mrs. Brewster. It's very kind of you to consult us.

Isn't it, Helen? Can you think of anything you

should like to have, dear?

Lily Ann. Well, of course this ain't no first-class

hotel. We ain't got everything.

Helen. I'm sure, anything Aunt Sarah is kind

enough to provide will be most acceptable.

Mrs. Brewster. Yes — of course

Lily Ann. Land, you're gittin' mighty unp'tic'lar all

of a sudden, seems t' me. Well, how would a

good boiled dinner do y' ?

Mrs. Brewster. I'm afraid I don't know just what

you mean

Lily Ann. Huh! I guess you know what a boiled dinner is, all right; used t' live here on the farm y'rself till you went away t' boardin'-school 'n' got in with city folks 'n' their high notions. I guess you've et boiled dinners b'fore now.

Mrs. Brev/ster. Indeed!

Helen. But I never lived on the farm, you know, Lily Ann, so perhaps you will inform me just what a " boiled dinner " is. Something boiled, of course

Lily Ann. Sure. Cabbage, turnips, p'tatoes, and so forth, boiled in with a nice hunk o' salt pork, part lean. It jest touches the spot with us, but — well, Miss Newcomb ain't let me have one all summer, thinkin' it wouldn't be " stylish " enough for y'. But I guess you'd manage to eat it.

Helen. I am sure it sounds quite alluring.

Lily Ann. Well, it sounds good and fiUin', anyhow. Squash pie goes fine with it — 'n' — as I said to Miss Newcomb, " 'F they don't like it, let 'em go without." 'T any rate, it's what we're goin' t' have, 'cause I got it over.

(Mrs. Brewster, as if unahle to control herself, has gone up by gate, is looking off l. Helen shrugs her shoulders good-naturedly. Lily Ann goes to door, meeting Leonard, who enters from house. He passes her and comes down to R. c. Exit Lily Ann to house.)

Leonard {looking hack at Lily Ann). I hope she

hasn't been letting out again. I tried to get here

in time to ward her off, but was talking to Miss

Newcomb.

Helen. We have been ordering our dinner, that's

all. It's to be a " boiled " one — quite a feast, I

beheve.

Leonard. Yes, indeed; you have a treat in store —

one of Lily Ann's boiled dinners. And squash

pie for dessert, I hope ?

Helen. Yes, I believe that is to be a part of the

banquet. {Going part way up c.) Mother, aren't i6 you going to take a little nap, in preparation for such a gastronomical — {Smiling, to Leonard.) — is that a good word ? — feast ?

Mrs. Brewster. No. I napped quite sufficiently this afternoon, while you and Mr. Fillmore were taking a stroll, and picking wild flowers, I believe. (Leonard has crossed to l. ; notices the flowers on ground, now glances rather ruefully at them.) I wish to go in and see Miss Newcomb — if you can spare me for a few moments?

Leonard. Oh, yes — certainly,

Helen. Perhaps we will go in the orchard for a little while. I just love those early red apples.

Mrs. Brewster {on steps, about to go in house). But, my dear, just before dinner— and such a dinner !

Helen. Don't worry — only a nibble, you know.

Mrs. Brewster. Very well. Then I will leave her in your care, Mr. Fillmore

Leonard. Thanks. Trust me.

Helen {going l., in a slightly coquettish mood). Will you come ?

Leonard. Ask me.

Helen. I do. But, beware — I might tempt you — with an apple, you know

Leonard. Ch, what a willing Adam am I! {They are about to go out l. He surrenders to her mood.) But poor Adam had only an apple to tempt him, while I — I see a " peach "

Helen. Oh, Mr, Fillmore, is that worthy of you? — a lawyer, too !

(Mrs. Brewster has stood on steps, or porch, watching them, with a crafty smile. As they exeunt L., she turns and is about to go into house, but meets Sarah and comes back to c. Enter Sarah Newcomb from house, down steps to r. c.)

Sarah. Oh, here you are, Em? I was looking for you. Lily Ann tells me you have ordered a boiled dinner. I hope your headache is better, or I am afraid

Mrs. Brewster. It is, thank you. But I ordered nothing. It was entirely the maid's suggestion, I assure you. I simply thought it best to submit. She has pretty much her own way, it strikes me,

Sarah. Well, I suppose she has, I guess I've let her have it so long there's no breaking her of it now. Len Fillmore has just been telling me she said something that offended you. You mustn't mind her, Em, I really couldn't get along without her, you know.

Mrs. Brewster. I am willing to overlook a great deal, Sarah, but — she actually had the presumption to insinuate that Helen and I are imposing upon you by remaining here. As if you — my own dear sister

(Wiping eyes, pretending to be near tears.)

Sarah. The idea! Why, you're welcome to stay here as long as you please; you know that. I feel honored to think it's good enough for you, after all your city grandeur and everything, Lily Ann just blurts things out. You mustn't pay any attention to her, Em.

Mrs. Brewster. Well, I'll try not to do so, hereafter. But, please don't call me " Em," Sarah. It quite annoys me.

Sarah. Does it? Land, it never occurred to me. I can't seem to think of " Emmeline," somehow. You see, it sort o' seems just the same to me as it did when we was girls here together, and we used to always call you " Em " in those days. My, but it's a long time since then, isn't it, Em — meline ?

Mrs. Brewster. Quite too long to mention, or even think about, I should say.

Sarah. I don't see why, 'Tain't no disgrace to be gett'n' old, as I can see. All the best people are doing it, you know. Besides, you ain't more than

Mrs. Brewster. Sarah — please

Sarah. Oh, well, then I won't. But think how long

i8

ALIAS HISS SHERLOCK it IS since you were here that other time, when Helen was only about four years old and your boy was only a baby. What a cute little thing he was — your Dick, Emmeline. Why, he must be almost a man now, and a real joy to you.

Mrs. Brewster. A " joy " — my son ! Little you know him, or what he is to me — a trial, a tribulation — I might say even a disgrace. Sometimes I think it would have been better had he never been born.

Sarah. Why, Emmeline, what do you mean? I've wondered why you never said much about him,

why you never seemed to want to tell me ■

But, Emmeline — your boy — little Dick, your own son — how can you say such a thing?

Mrs. Brewster. Because it is true. Little has he ever considered me. He spends what he earns on riotous living, in the company of persons who are called " fast," and who tempt him to misdeeds and forgetfulness of what is honest and upright. That is the kind of son I have, Sarah — my " little Dick," as you call him.

Sarah. Dick — the baby boy I used to hold in these arms and cuddle up to me and wish was mine. And then, that summer you let him come here and stay with me, when he was ten years old — because he wasn't very well — the summer that was like heaven to me, because I had him — just like he was mine — my very own. Oh, how I loved him — and he learned to love me, too — and then — I had to give him up — let him go — back to you, who can say such things about him — that he is a trial and a tribulation. Oh, Emmeline — Emmeline Brewster — what kind of mother have you been, if you have let him grow up to be that kind of man ?

Mrs. Brewster. I dare say you think I am to blame. Little you know of such matters — of the world — of life.

Sarah. Maybe I know more about some things than you think I do. 'T any rate, I know enough about the world, and life, to know what a real mother ought to be, and that the right kind never would talk that way about her own son, no matter what he was, or what he had done. " Mother " — you ! You never was fit to be one — it wasn't in you. Forgive me, Em, but I'm goin' to speak the truth, if it does hurt. When you was a girl, it was all for dressing up and looking pretty with you — goin' away to boarding-school and getting " educated," as you called it. Well, you did — there in the " real world " you talk about and that you say I don't know or understand. Then I thank heaven I don't, and I wish you didn't — a world that makes a woman so hard that she calls her own son a tribulation and a disgrace, instead of the blessing he ought to be to her. Mrs. Brewster. I refuse to listen to any more of your abuse. Even my own sister has no right to say such things to me.