uilt, like two little white rabbits nestling into one
another, they reverted once more to their father's instructions for
meeting the dentist, and giggled themselves to sleep.

Another pair of talkers, also with some common attributes of character,
but with less knowledge of each other, were astir after these sisters
had fallen asleep.

Most of the rooms in the house were on the ground-floor, but there were
two attic bedrooms opening off a very large room in the roof which the
former occupant had used as a granary. One of these Sophia occupied with
a child; the other had been given to Eliza. That night, when Sophia was
composing herself to sleep, she heard Eliza weeping. So smothered were
the sounds of sorrow that she could hardly hear them. She lifted her
head, listened, then, putting a long fur cloak about her, went into the
next room.

No sooner was her hand on the latch of Eliza's door than all sound
ceased. She stood for a minute in the large, dark granary. The draught
in it was almost great enough to be called a breeze, and it whispered in
the eaves which the sloping rafters made round the edges of the floor as
a wind might sigh in some rocky cave. Sophia opened the door and went
in.

"What is the matter, Eliza?"

Even in the almost darkness she could see that the girl's movement Was
an involuntary feigning of surprise.

"Nothing."

"I used to hear you crying when we first came, Eliza, and now you have
begun it again. Tell me what troubles you. Why do you pretend that
nothing is the matter?"

The cold glimmer of the light of night reflected on snow came in at the
diamond-shaped window, and the little white bed was just shadowed forth
to Sophia's sight. The girl in it might have been asleep, she remained
so quiet.

"Are you thinking about your father?"

"I don't know."

"Do you dislike being here?"

"No; but--"

"But what? What is troubling you, Eliza? You're not a girl to cry for
nothing. Since you came to us I have seen that you are a
straightforward, good girl; and you have plenty of sense, too. Come,
tell me how it is you cry like this?"

Eliza sat up. "You won't tell them downstairs?" she said slowly.

"You may trust me not to repeat anything that is not necessary."

Eliza moved nervously, and her movements suggested hopelessness of
trouble and difficulty of speech. Sophia pitied her.

"I don't know," she said restlessly, stretching out aimless hands into
the darkness, "I don't know why