would have felt. This so dominated
Jane's every motion that it often robbed her of the full enjoyment of
the companionship of a sister so young and so beautiful.

If Jane, to quote Doctor John, looked like a lily swaying on a slender
stem, Lucy, when she bounded into the room to-night, was a full-blown
rose tossed by a summer breeze. She came in with throat and neck bare;
a woman all curves and dimples, her skin as pink as a shell; plump as a
baby, and as fair, and yet with the form of a wood-nymph; dressed in a
clinging, soft gown, the sleeves caught up at the shoulders revealing
her beautiful arms, a spray of blossoms on her bosom, her blue eyes
dancing with health, looking twenty rather than seventeen; glad of her
freedom, glad of her home and Jane and Martha, and of the lights and
blossoms and the glint on silver and glass, and of all that made life
breathable and livable.

"Oh, but isn't it just too lovely to be at home!" she cried as she
skipped about. "No lights out at nine, no prayers, no getting up at six
o'clock and turning your mattress and washing in a sloppy little
washroom. Oh, I'm so happy! I can't realize it's all true." As she
spoke she raised herself on her toes so that she could see her face in
the mirror over the mantel. "Why, do you know, sister," she rattled on,
her eyes studying her own face, "that Miss Sarah used to make us learn
a page of dictionary if we talked after the silence bell!"

"You must know the whole book by heart, then, dearie," replied Jane
with a smile, as she bent over a table and pushed back some books to
make room for a bowl of arbutus she held in her hand.

"Ah, but she didn't catch us very often. We used to stuff up the cracks
in the doors so she couldn't hear us talk and smother our heads in the
pillows. Jonesy, the English teacher, was the worst." She was still
looking in the glass, her fingers busy with the spray of blossoms on
her bosom. "She always wore felt slippers and crept around like a cat.
She'd tell on anybody. We had a play one night in my room after lights
were out, and Maria Collins was Claude Melnotte and I was Pauline.
Maria had a mustache blackened on her lips with a piece of burnt cork
and I was all fixed up in a dressing-gown and sash. We never heard
Jonesy till she put her hand on the knob; then we blew out the candle
and popped into bed. She smelled the candle-wick and leaned over and
kissed Maria good-night, and the black all came off on her lips, a