she would break into the conversation with some wholly
alien remark that necessitated a reassembling of one's ideas, making the
meal a series of mental gymnastics. Miss Jane, through long practice,
and because she only skimmed the surface of conversation, took her
cerebral flights easily, but I am more unwieldy of mind.

Nor was Miss Letitia's dominance wholly conversational. Her sister Jane
was her creature, alternately snubbed and bullied. To Miss Letitia,
Jane, in spite of her sixty-five years, was still a child, and sometimes
a bad one. Indeed, many a child of ten is more sophisticated. Miss
Letitia gave her expurgated books to read, and forbade her to read
divorce court proceedings in the newspapers. Once, a recreant housemaid
presenting the establishment with a healthy male infant, Jane was sent
to the country for a month, and was only brought back when the house had
been fumigated throughout.

Poor Miss Jane! She met me with fluttering cordiality in the hall that
night, safe in being herself for once, with the knowledge that Miss
Letitia always received me from a throne-like horsehair sofa in the back
parlor. She wore a new lace cap, and was twitteringly excited.

"Our niece is here," she explained, as I took off my coat--everything
was "ours" with Jane; "mine" with Letitia--"and we are having an ice at
dinner. Please say that ices are not injurious, Mr. Knox. My sister is
so opposed to them and I had to beg for this."

"On the contrary, the doctors have ordered ices for my young nephews," I
said gravely, "and I dote on them myself."

Miss Jane beamed. Indeed, there was something almost unnaturally gay
about the little old lady all that evening. Perhaps it was the new lace
cap. Later, I tried to analyze her manner, to recall exactly what she
had said, to remember anything that could possibly help. But I could
find no clue to what followed.

Miss Letitia received me as usual, in the back parlor. Miss Fleming was
there also, sewing by a window, and in her straight white dress with her
hair drawn back and braided around her head, she looked even younger
than before. There was no time for conversation. Miss Letitia launched
at once into the extravagance of both molasses and butter on the colored
orphans' bread and after a glance at me, and a quick comprehension from
my face that I had no news for her, the girl at the window bent over her
sewing again.

"Molasses breeds worms," Miss Letitia said decisively. "So