one," she said severely.

The next morning, when the sisters entered
their drawing-room there were numerous evi-
dences of an occupant during their absence.
The sofa pillows had been rearranged so that
the effect of their grouping was less bizarre
than that favored by the Western women; a
horrid little Buddhist idol with its eyes fixed
on its abdomen, had been chastely hidden
behind a Dresden shepherdess, as unfit for
the scrutiny of polite eyes; and on the table
where Miss Prudence did work in water colors,
after the fashion of the impressionists, lay a
prim and impossible composition representing
a moss-rose and a number of heartsease, col-
ored with that caution which modest spinster
artists instinctively exercise.

"Oh, there's no doubt it's the work of Miss
Lydia Carew," said Miss Prudence, contemptu-
ously. "There's no mistaking the drawing of
that rigid little rose. Don't you remember
those wreaths and bouquets framed, among the
pictures we got when the Carew pictures were
sent to us? I gave some of them to an orphan
asylum and burned up the rest."

"Hush!" cried Miss Boggs, involuntarily.
"If she heard you, it would hurt her feelings