place among her fellows, be set forth, garnished and launched as befitted
the daughter of George Alston. It was an undertaking before which Lorry's
spirit quailed, but it was part of the obligation she had assumed. Though
she had accepted the idea, the translation from contemplation to action
was slow. In fact she might have stayed contemplating had not a
conversation one night with Chrystie nerved her to a desperate courage.

The girls occupied two adjoining rooms on the side of the house which
overlooked the garden. Across the hall was their parents' room, exactly
the same as it had been when Minnie Alston died there. Behind it were
others, large, high-ceilinged, with vast beds and heavy curtains. These
had been tenanted at long intervals, once by an uncle from the East,
since deceased, and lately by the Barlow girls, Chrystie's friends from
San Mateo. That had been quite an occasion. Chrystie talked of it as she
did of going to the opera or on board the English man-of-war.

Lorry was sitting in front of the glass brushing her hair, when
Chrystie, supposedly retired, came in fully dressed. She dropped onto
the side of the bed, watching her sister, with her head tilted, her eye
dreamily ruminant.

"What's the matter, dear?" said Lorry. "Why aren't you in bed?"

Chrystie yawned.

"I can't possibly imagine except that I don't want to be there," came
through the yawn.

"Aren't you sleepy?"