et up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the
dishes?" inquired Jane, irrelevantly.

"All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg,
besides my coffee," said Imogen, with her imperious air.

"Somebody has to prepare it."

"That is a mere nothing," said Imogen, and she took another stitch.

After a little, Jane and Eliza went by themselves and discussed the
problem.

"It is quite evident that Imogen means to do nothing," said Jane.

"And also that she will justify herself by the theory that there is
nothing to be done," said Eliza.

"Oh, well," said Jane, "I will get up and get breakfast, of course. I
once contemplated the prospect of doing it the rest of my life."

Eliza assented. "I can understand that it will not be so hard for you,"
she said, "and although I myself always aspired to higher things than
preparing breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you would
probably have had it to do if poor Henry had lived, for he was not one
to ever have a very large salary."

"There are better things than large salaries," said Jane, and her face
looked sadly reminiscent. After all, the distinction of being the only
one who had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial breakfasts was
much. She felt that it would make early rising and early work endurable
to her, although she was not an active young woman.

"I will get a dish-mop and wash the dishes," said Eliza. "I can manage
to have an instructive book propped open on the kitchen table, and keep
my mind upon higher things as I do such menial tasks."

Then Susan stood in the doorway, a tall figure gracefully swaying
sidewise, long-throated and prominent-eyed. She was the least
attractive-looking of any of the sisters, but her manners were so
charming, and she was so perfectly the lady, that it made up for any
lack of beauty.

"I will dust," said Susan, in a lovely voice, and as she spoke she
involuntarily bent and swirled her limp muslins in such a way that she
fairly suggested a moral duster. There was the making of an actress in
Susan. Nobody had ever been able to decide what her true individual self
was. Quite unconsciously, like a chameleon, she took upon herself the
characteristics of even inanimate things. Just now she was a duster, and
a wonderfully creditable duster.

"Who," said Jane, "is going to sweep? Dear Annie has always done that."

"I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very sorry," said Susan, who
remain