ho_
they are--if they're ladies or not. It's not a good influence for
her...."

"She ought to get out of it," Alf said. To Emmy it was a ghastly moment.

"She'll never give it up," she hurriedly said. "You know, it's in her
blood. Off she goes! And they make a fuss of her. She mimics everybody,
and they laugh at it--they think it's funny to mimic people who can't
help themselves--if they _are_ a bit comic. So she goes; and when she
does come home Pa's so glad to see a fresh face that he makes a fuss of
her, too. And she stuffs him up with all sorts of tales--things that
never happened--to keep him quiet. She says it gives him something to
think about.... Well, I suppose it does. I expect you think I'm very
unkind to say such things about my own sister; but really I can't help
seeing what's under my nose; and I sometimes get so--you know, worked
up, that I don't know how to hold myself. She doesn't understand what it
is to be cooped up indoors all day long, like I am; and it never occurs
to her to say 'Go along, Em; you run out for a bit.' I have to say to
her: 'You be in for a bit, Jen?' and then she p'tends she's always in.
And then there's a rumpus...."

Alf was altogether subdued by this account: it had that degree of
intimacy which, when one is in a sentimental mood, will always be
absorbing. He felt that he really was getting to the bottom of the
mystery known to him as Jenny Blanchard. The picture had verisimilitude.
He could see Jenny as he listened. He was seeing her with the close and
searching eye of a sister, as nearly true, he thought, as any vision
could be. Once the thought, "I expect there's another story" came
sidling into his head; but it was quickly drowned in further
reminiscence from Emmy, so that it was clearly a dying desire that he
left for Jenny. Had Jenny been there, to fling her gage into the field,
Alf might gapingly have followed her, lost again in admiration of her
more sparkling tongue and equipments. But in such circumstances the
arraigned party is never present. If Jenny had been there the tale could
not have been told. Emmy's virtuous and destructive monologue would not
merely have been interrupted: it would have been impossible. Jenny would
have done all the talking. The others, all amaze, would have listened
with feelings appropriate to each, though with feelings in common
unpleasant to be borne.

"I bet there's a rumpus," Alf agreed. "Old Jen's not one to take a blow.
She ups and