heart pulsed
with joy and pride and ambition; in her heart longing fought with
abnegation. For I was led to the schoolroom, with its sunshine and its
singing and the teacher's cheery smile; while she was led to the
workshop, with its foul air, care-lined faces, and the foreman's stern
command. Our going to school was the fulfilment of my father's best
promises to us, and Frieda's share in it was to fashion and fit the
calico frocks in which the baby sister and I made our first appearance
in a public schoolroom.

I remember to this day the gray pattern of the calico, so
affectionately did I regard it as it hung upon the wall--my
consecration robe awaiting the beatific day. And Frieda, I am sure,
remembers it, too, so longingly did she regard it as the crisp,
starchy breadths of it slid between her fingers. But whatever were her
longings, she said nothing of them; she bent over the sewing-machine
humming an Old-World melody. In every straight, smooth seam, perhaps,
she tucked away some lingering impulse of childhood; but she matched
the scrolls and flowers with the utmost care. If a sudden shock of
rebellion made her straighten up for an instant, the next instant she
was bending to adjust a ruffle to the best advantage. And when the
momentous day arrived, and the little sister and I stood up to be
arrayed, it was Frieda herself who patted and smoothed my stiff new
calico; who made me turn round and round, to see that I was perfect;
who stooped to pull out a disfiguring basting-thread. If there was
anything in her heart besides sisterly love and pride and good-will,
as we parted that morning, it was a sense of loss and a woman's
acquiescence in her fate; for we had been close friends, and now our
ways would lie apart. Longing she felt, but no envy. She did not
grudge me what she was denied. Until that morning we had been children
together, but now, at the fiat of her destiny, she became a woman,
with all a woman's cares; whilst I, so little younger than she, was
bidden to dance at the May festival of untroubled childhood.

I wish, for my comfort, that I could say that I had some notion of the
difference in our lots, some sense of the injustice to her, of the
indulgence to me. I wish I could even say that I gave serious thought
to the matter. There had always been a distinction between us rather
out of proportion to the difference in our years. Her good health and
domestic instincts had made it natural for her to become