ss Gordon laughed. "Has Mr. MacAllister turned into an intelligence
office? Or is he squire of domestic dames?" She retreated up the
stairs as she spoke. It was not safe to get caught in the full tide of
Mrs. Dalley's talk, one might find a whole evening swept away by it.

"Charles Stuart is so queer," she soliloquized. "I wonder what he's up
to now."

She tapped briskly upon a bedroom door at the head of the stairs, then
shoved it open. A young woman with loose raiment, untidy hair, and a
green shade over her eyes looked up from her studies. She raised a
book and aimed it threateningly.

"Lizzie Gordon, don't dare show your idle and frivolous head in this
place. Miss Mills is coming down in five minutes, and we are going to
grind for an hour before tea."

"The mills of the Gordons grind at most inconvenient seasons," said the
visitor giddily. She entered just as though she had been cordially
invited, concealing the magazine beneath her cloak. "I'll stay until
the wheels begin to rumble, anyway. Any letters from home?" She
rummaged through the books and papers that littered the table, keeping
her magazine carefully hidden.

"Just that note from Malc. He was home for Sunday. Jamie's started to
the High School, and Archie's in John Coulson's office. Is that really
another new dress, Lizzie?"

Elizabeth, absorbed in Malcolm's business flourishes, made no reply.
"Mrs. Jarvis spoils you," her sister continued. "You've had your hair
done at the hair-dresser's again, I do believe. Do you know that light
streak in it has almost disappeared, hasn't it?"

Elizabeth folded the letter. The gray star-eyes were very tender.
"I'm so glad Mary's cough is better. My hair?" She patted the heavy
brown braids. "Yes, of course. That means that the wild streak is
gone. I'm perfectly genteel, I assure you, Jean. I left all my
improprieties scattered over the continent of Europe last summer, and
have come home prepared to give up all my penoeuvres."

"I wish you wouldn't use those foolish expressions of Sarah Emily's,
dear, they sound so illiterate."

Elizabeth put down the letter and gave her sister's ear a pull.

"Jean Gordon, you are becoming so horribly particular I'm scared of
you. Every time I come over here I spend the day before getting out an
expurgated edition of everything I intend to say, and even then I fall
into rhetorical pits."

"You're hopeless," sighed Jean. "What were you at to-day, a t