The difference was noticeable enough; Lydia's was not ill-shapen, but there were marks on it of all the rough household work which she had never permitted her sister to do.

Thyrza's was delicate, supple, beautiful in its kind as her face.
'I don't care!' she said laughing.

'It's a good, soft, sleepy hand.' 'Sleepy, child!' 'I mean it always makes me feel dozy when it's doing my hair.' There was no more cloud between them.

The morning passed on with sisterly talk.

Lydia had wisely refrained from exacting promises; she hoped to resume the subject before long--together with another that was in her mind.