“No I thank you,” returned ’Lena, beginning to get an inkling of the truth.  “You know I’m accustomed to waiting upon myself, and if I want anything, Drusa can assist me.  I’ve only to change my soiled dress and smooth my hair,” she continued, as she shook out her long and now rather rough tresses.

“What handsome hair you’ve got,” said Carrie, taking one of the curls in her hand.  “I’d forgotten it was so beautiful.  Hasn’t it improved during your absence?”

“A course of fever is not usually very beneficial to one’s hair, I believe,” answered ’Lena, as she proceeded to brush and arrange her wavy locks, which really had lost some of their luster.

Foiled in her attempt at toadyism, Carrie took another tack.  Looking ’Lena in the face, she said, ^What is it?  I can’t make it out, but—­but somehow you’ve changed, you don’t look so—­so——­”

“So well you would say, I suppose,” returned ’Lena, laughingly, “I’ve grown thin, but I hope to improve by and by.”

Drusa glanced at the two girls as they stood side by side, and her large eyes sparkled as she thought her young mistress “a heap the best lookin’ now.”

By this time Carrie had thought to ask for Durward.  Instantly ’Lena turned whiter, if possible, than she was before, and in an unsteady voice she replied, that “she did not know.”

“Not know!” repeated Carrie, her own countenance brightening visibly.  “Haven’t you seen him?  Wasn’t he at that funny, out-of-the-way place, where you were?”

“Yes, but he left before I saw him,” returned ’Lena, her manner plainly indicating that there was something wrong.

Carrie’s spirits rose.  There was a chance for her, and on their way downstairs she laughed and chatted so familiarly, that ’Lena wondered if it could be the same haughty girl who had seldom spoken to her except to repulse or command her.  The supper-bell rang just as they reached the parlor, and Mr. Graham, taking ’Lena on his arm, led the way to the dining-room, where the entire silver tea-set had been brought out, in honor of the occasion.

“Hasn’t ’Lena changed, mother?” said Carrie, feeling hateful, and knowing no better way of showing it “Hasn’t her sickness changed her?”

“It has made her grow old; that’s all the difference I perceive,” returned Mrs. Livingstone, satisfied that she’d said the thing which she knew would most annoy herself.

“How old are you, dear?” asked Mrs. Graham, leaning across the table.

“Eighteen,” was ’Lena’s answer, to which Mrs. Graham replied, “I thought so.  Three years younger than Carrie, I believe.”

“Two, only two,” interrupted Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie exclaimed, “Horrors!  How old do you take me to be?”

Adroitly changing the conversation, Mrs. Graham made no reply, and soon after they rose from the table.  Scarcely had they returned to the parlor, when John Jr. was announced.  “He had,” he said, “got his grandmother to sleep and put her to bed, and now he had come to pay his respects to Miss Graham!”