"Yes," said Miss Deborah Woodhouse, as she stood in the doorway of Miss Ruth's studio, "yes, we must give a dinner party, sister.

It is certainly the proper thing to do, now that the Forsythes are going back to the city.

It is to be expected of us, sister." "Well, I don't know that it is expected of us," said Miss Ruth, who never agreed too readily to any suggestion of Miss Deborah's; "but I think we ought to do it.

I meant to have spoken to you about it." Miss Ruth was washing some brushes, a task her soul abhorred, for it was almost impossible to avoid some stain upon her apron or her hands; though, to guard against the latter, she wore gloves.

The corners of Miss Ruth's mouth were drawn down and her eyebrows lifted up, and her whole face was a protest against her work.