There was a long pause.  Theodora was aimlessly turning over the photographs in her lap, while Phebe methodically packed away the contents of her trunk.  The room was quite orderly again before either of the sisters spoke.  Then Theodora asked,—­

“What are you going to do now, Babe?”

“Study.”

“Study what?”

“Medicine.”

“Phebe McAlister!”

A sudden flash of merriment came into the shrewd eyes.

“That is my name,” she observed.  “Do you remember how you worked at Huntington’s to get money for college?  It is my turn now.”

“I remember how you scolded me for it,” Theodora responded tartly.  “What has turned you to this whim, Babe?”

“It is no whim.  It is a good profession, and other women no smarter than I, have succeeded in it.”

“You are smart enough, Babe; it’s not that.  But why do you want to do anything of the kind?”

“What should I do?  I sha’n’t marry.  Billy is the only man I ever liked.  You took him, and you appear to be in rude health, so there is no chance for me.  I must do something, Teddy, something definite.  I can’t potter round the house, all my days.  The mother is housekeeper; I must have something more absorbing than dusting and salads and amateur photography to fill up my time.”

Theodora laughed at the outburst.  Then, as she sat looking up at her tall young sister, a sudden gentleness crossed her face.  In their childhood, she and Phebe had always clashed.  To-day, for the first time, she felt a full comprehension of the girl’s point of view.

“Things are out of joint, Teddy,” Phebe was saying.  “It is all right for a boy to be restless and eager to find his place; but we girls must trot up and down one narrow path, all our days.  Sometimes I don’t mind it; but there come times when I want to knock down the fences and break away into a new track of my own, a track that goes somewhere, not a promenade.  I want to have a goal and keep moving toward it, not swing this way and that like a pendulum.  Europe was lovely, and Mrs. Farrington; but—­I’m queer, Ted.  There is no getting around the fact.”  Phebe brushed away a tear that hung heavy on her brown lashes.

Theodora held out her hand to her invitingly; but Phebe shook her head.

“No; I don’t want to be cuddled, Ted; I’m not a baby.  I want to be understood; that is all.  You never can understand, though.  You have Billy and your writing, more than your fair share, and you grew up into them both.  You were foreordained.  Other people are.  I wish I were; but I’m not, and yet I want to work, to do something definite.”  She paused with a little laugh.  “I said something about it once to some nice English girls I met at Lucerne.  They seemed very all-round and energetic, and I thought they would understand.  They just put their dear, rosy heads on one side and said, ‘Oh, dear me, how very unusual!’ Then I gave it up and kept still till I told Mrs. Farrington.  She understood.”