willing to work for perfection.

Evans, who had taken Lydia to so many balls in past years, smiled to see
her laboring over the steps of some heavy grandmother or
light-footed--and perhaps light-fingered--mulatto girl.

An evening suddenly came back to her. It was in New York. She had come
downstairs about eleven o'clock with Miss Thorne's opera cloak and fan.
There had been people to dinner, but they had all gone except Mr.
Dorset, and he was being instructed in some new intricacy of the dance.
Miss Bennett, who belonged to a generation that knew something about
playing the piano, was making music for them. Evans, if she shut her
eyes, could see Lydia as she was then, in a short blue brocade, trying
to shove her partner into the correct step and literally shaking him
when he failed to catch her rhythm. She was being far more patient with
Muriel, holding her pale coffee-colored hands and repeating, "One-two,
one-two; one-two-three-four. There, Muriel, you've got it!" Her face lit
up with pleasure as she turned to Evans. "Isn't she quick at it,
Louisa?"

Lydia's second spring in prison was well advanced when she was sent for
by the matron. Such a summons was an event Lydia racked her brain to
think what was coming--for good or evil. The matron's first question was
startling. Did she know anything about baseball?

Did she? Yes, something. Her mind went back to a Fourth of July house
party she had been to where a baseball game among the guests was a
yearly feature. She and the matron discussed the possibilities of
getting up two nines among the inmates. She suggested that there were
books on the subject. A book would be provided. She felt touched and
flattered at the responsibility put upon her, humbly eager to succeed.

The whole question began to absorb her. She studied it in the evening
and thought about it during the day, considering the possibilities of
her material, the relation of character to skill. Grace, a forger, was
actually a better pitcher, but the woman who had killed her husband had
infinitely more staying power.

All through that second summer she occupied herself, day and night, with
the team, more and more as September drew to a close. For she knew that
with the approaching expiration of her minimum sentence the parole board
would consider her release. Freedom in all probability was near, and
freedom is a disorganizing thought to prisoners. The peace she had
gained in prison began to flow away as e