Phebe McAlister sat on the floor beside an open trunk. Around her was
scattered a pile of feminine mysteries, twice as bulky as the trunk from
which they had come, and the bed was littered with gowns as varied in hue
as in material. Pink chiffon met green broadcloth, and white silk and
blue gingham nestled side by side with a friendly disregard of the fact
that their paths in life would not often bring them together. The whole
room was in a wild state of disarray. The only orderly object in it was
Phebe herself.

A girl of the early twenties, perfect in health and in trim neatness,
never lacks a certain attractiveness; but Phebe went beyond that. At a
first glance, her features might be condemned as irregular, her eyes as
too piercing, her lips and chin as too firm. The next moment, all that
was forgotten. Phebe was rarely silent for more than one moment at a
time. As soon as she spoke, her face lighted and became whimsical,
piquant, merry, or fiery as suited her mood; and Phebe's friends were
never agreed as to which of her moods was most becoming. Pretty she was
not, beautiful she was not; but she was undeniably interesting, and at
times brilliantly handsome.

She looked up, as Theodora came into the room.

"How do? Sit down," she said briefly.

"I came over to see if I couldn't help you with your unpacking," Theodora
said, as she paused beside the trunk.

"Thank you, no. I can do it."