painfully conscious of her own dullness and the critical glances that
wandered over her best clothes.

But she did not give much thought to herself. That she lacked charm, was
the kind to be overlooked and left in corners, did not trouble her.
Since her earliest memories--since the day Chrystie was born and her
mother had died--she had had other people and other claims on her mind.
Her first vivid recollection--terrible and ineffaceable--was of her
father that day, catching her to him and sobbing with his face pressed
against her baby shoulder. It seemed as if the impression made then had
extended all through her life, turned her into a creature of poignant
sympathies and an unassuagable longing to console and compensate. She had
not been able to do that for him, but she had been able to love--break
her box of ointment at his feet.

From that day the little child became the companion of the elderly man,
her soft youth was molded to suit his saddened age, her deepest desire
was a meeting of his wishes. Chrystie, whose birth had killed her
mother, became their mutual joy, their shared passion. Chrystie-worship
was inaugurated by the side of the blue and white bassinet, the nursery
was a shrine, the blooming baby an idol installed for their devotion.
When George Alston died, Lorry, thirteen years old, had dedicated
herself to the service, held herself committed to a continuance of the
rites. He had left her Chrystie and she would fulfill the trust even as
he would have wished.

Probably it was this enveloping idolatry that had made Christie so unlike
parents and sister. She was neither retiring nor serious, but social and
pleasure-loving, ready to dance through life as irresponsibly enjoying as
a mote in a sunbeam. And now Lorry had wakened to the perplexed