ast, asking impertinent
questions, making saucy comments, quite as of old. It was only when Dot
Manning, toward the end of the visit, began a sober tale of the
misfortunes which had come thronging into the life of one of their
classmates, that Georgiana's face, sobering into sympathetic gravity,
betrayed to her companions a curious change which had come upon it since
they saw it last.

Meanwhile, in answer to her questioning, they had told her all about
themselves. Phyllis Porter and Celia Winters were having a glorious
season in society. Theo Crossman was deep in settlement work--"crazy
over it" was, of course, the phrase. Dot Manning was going abroad next
week for a year of travel in all sorts of beguiling, out-of-the-way
places. As for Madge Sylvester, who was getting ready to be married
after Easter, the first of the class, she sat mostly in a dreamy,
smiling silence, looking into the fire while the others talked.

No, Georgiana did not want to hate the girls, but before their stay was
over she found herself coming dangerously near it--temporarily, at
least. They were dears, of course, but they were so content with
themselves and so pitiful of her. Not, of course, that they meant to let
her see this, but it showed in spite of them. They wanted to know what
she did with herself, whether there were any young people, and any good
times going on--Georgiana led them to the window, just at this point,
and pointed out to them a vigorous young man striding by in ulster and
soft hat, who looked up and waved as he passed, showing one of those
fine and manly young faces, glowing with health and hopefulness, which
always challenge interest from girlhood.

"Oh, have you many like that?" Celia had asked, and when Georgiana had
owned that James Stuart was the only one precisely "like that," Dot had
inquired if Mr. Stuart belonged to Georgiana, and, being answered in the
negative, shook her head and sighed: "One swallow _may_ make a summer,
Jan, but I doubt it!"

Theodora Crossman, the settlement worker, inquired particularly whether
Georgiana were doing anything worth while, using that pregnant modern
phrase which has been decidedly overworked, yet which hardly can be
spared from the present-day vocabulary.

"Worth while!" cried Georgiana, flashing into flame in an instant in the
way they knew so well. "Worth while--yes! You haven't seen my father,
have you, ever? It's a pity this happens to be one of his bad,
spine-achey da