ed a duster, and did not become a broom.

"If we have system," said Eliza, vaguely, "the work ought not to be so
very hard."

"Of course not," said Imogen. She had come in and seated herself. Her
three sisters eyed her, but she embroidered imperturbably. The same
thought was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the very one to
take the task of sweeping upon herself. That hard, compact, young body
of hers suggested strenuous household work. Embroidery did not seem to
be her role at all.

But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, the very imagining of
such tasks in connection with herself was beyond her. She did not even
dream that her sisters expected it of her.

"I suppose," said Jane, "that we might be able to engage Mrs. Moss to
come in once a week and do the sweeping."

"It would cost considerable," said Susan.

"But it has to be done."

"I should think it might be managed, with system, if you did not hire
anybody," said Imogen, calmly.

"You talk of system as if it were a suction cleaner," said Eliza, with
a dash of asperity. Sometimes she reflected how she would have hated
Imogen had she not been her sister.

"System is invaluable," said Imogen. She looked away from her embroidery
to the white stretch of country road, arched over with elms, and
her beautiful eyes had an expression as if they sighted system, the
justified settler of all problems.

Meantime, Annie Hempstead was traveling to Anderson in the jolting
trolley-car, and trying to settle her emotions and her outlook upon
life, which jolted worse than the car upon a strange new track. She
had not the slightest intention of giving up her plan, but she realized
within herself the sensations of a revolutionist. Who in her family,
for generations and generations, had ever taken the course which she was
taking? She was not exactly frightened--Annie had splendid courage when
once her blood was up--but she was conscious of a tumult and grind of
adjustment to a new level which made her nervous.

She reached the end of the car line, then walked about half a mile to
her Aunt Felicia Hempstead's house. It was a handsome house, after the
standard of nearly half a century ago. It had an opulent air, with
its swelling breasts of bay windows, through which showed fine lace
curtains; its dormer-windows, each with its carefully draped curtains;
its black-walnut front door, whose side-lights were screened with
medallioned lace. The house sat high on