regarded as a creature of inferior parts, to be patronized or
snubbed, as the merits of the case demanded.

"Do you want a drink of water?" Persis asked, running through the
familiar formula. "Shall I get you a fan, or smooth out the sheets?
Then I guess I'll go down, Joel. I wouldn't pound any more for a
while, if I was you. 'Twon't do any good."

The sound of voices greeted her, as she descended the stairs, Mrs.
West's asthmatic tones blending with the flutey treble of a young girl.
"It's Diantha," thought Persis, her lips tightening. "I might have
known that Annabel Sinclair would send for that waist two days before
it was promised."

The young girl sitting opposite Mrs. West was perched lightly on the
edge of her chair like a bird on the point of flight, and the skirt of
her blue cotton frock was drawn down as far as possible over a
disconcerting length of black stocking. Her fair hair was worn in
curls which fell about her shoulders. Fresh coloring and regularity of
feature gave her a beauty partially discounted by an expression of
resentful defiance, singularly at variance with her general rosebud
effect.

"Mother sent me to see if her waist was ready, Miss Persis." Diantha
spoke like a child repeating a lesson it has been kept after school to
learn.

"It won't be done till Saturday, Diantha. I told your mother Saturday
when she sent the goods over."

The girl rose nimbly, the movement revealing unexpected height and
extreme slenderness, both qualities accentuated by her very juvenile
attire. She made a bird-like dart in the direction of the door, then
turned.

"Mother said I was to coax you into finishing it for to-morrow," she
announced, a light mockery rasping under the melody of her voice. "I
know it won't do any good, but I've got to be obedient. Please
consider yourself coaxed."

"No, it won't do any good, Diantha. The waist'll be ready about two
o'clock on Saturday." Persis stood watching the girl's retreating
figure, and the serenity of her face was for the moment clouded.

"Diantha Sinclair reminds me of a Lombardy poplar," remarked Mrs. West.
"Nothing but spindle till you're most to the top. It does seem fairly
immoral, such a show o' stockings."

"Annabel Sinclair seems to think she can stop that girl's growing up by
keeping her skirts to her knees," returned Persis grimly. "A young
lady daughter would be a dreadful inconvenience to Annabel." Then the
momentary sternness of