There were times, too—­especially whenever Lucy entered the room or her name was mentioned—­that there shone through Jane’s eyes a certain instantaneous kindling of the spirit which would irradiate her whole being as a candle does a lantern—­a light betokening not only uncontrollable tenderness but unspeakable pride, dimmed now and then when some word or act of her charge brought her face to face with the weight of the responsibility resting upon her—­a responsibility far outweighing that which most mothers would have felt.  This so dominated Jane’s every motion that it often robbed her of the full enjoyment of the companionship of a sister so young and so beautiful.

If Jane, to quote Doctor John, looked like a lily swaying on a slender stem, Lucy, when she bounded into the room to-night, was a full-blown rose tossed by a summer breeze.  She came in with throat and neck bare; a woman all curves and dimples, her skin as pink as a shell; plump as a baby, and as fair, and yet with the form of a wood-nymph; dressed in a clinging, soft gown, the sleeves caught up at the shoulders revealing her beautiful arms, a spray of blossoms on her bosom, her blue eyes dancing with. health, looking twenty rather than seventeen; glad of her freedom, glad of her home and Jane and Martha, and of the lights and blossoms and the glint on silver and glass, and of all that made life breathable and livable.

“Oh, but isn’t it just too lovely to be at home!” she cried as she skipped about.  “No lights out at nine, no prayers, no getting up at six o’clock and turning your mattress and washing in a sloppy little washroom.  Oh, I’m so happy!  I can’t realize it’s all true.”  As she spoke she raised herself on her toes so that she could see her face in the mirror over the mantel.  “Why, do you know, sister,” she rattled on, her eyes studying her own face, “that Miss Sarah used to make us learn a page of dictionary if we talked after the silence bell!”

“You must know the whole book by heart, then, dearie,” replied Jane with a smile, as she bent over a table and pushed back some books to make room for a bowl of arbutus she held in her hand.

“Ah, but she didn’t catch us very often.  We used to stuff up the cracks in the doors so she couldn’t hear us talk and smother our heads in the pillows.  Jonesy, the English teacher, was the worst.”  She was still looking in the glass, her fingers busy with the spray of blossoms on her bosom.  “She always wore felt slippers and crept around like a cat.  She’d tell on anybody.  We had a play one night in my room after lights were out, and Maria Collins was Claude Melnotte and I was Pauline.  Maria had a mustache blackened on her lips with a piece of burnt cork and I was all fixed up in a dressing-gown and sash.  We never heard Jonesy till she put her hand on the knob; then we blew out the candle and popped into bed.  She smelled the candle-wick and leaned over and kissed Maria good-night, and the black all came off on her lips, and next day we got three pages apiece—­the mean old thing!  How do I look, Martha?  Is my hair all right?” Here she turned her head for the old woman’s inspection.