dows came a merry chatter, a few rattling notes of the
piano, and something that sounded very much like a warm argument, for a
game of chess was going on by one window. Out on the broad porch that
ran all along the front of the house, and was shrouded with vines, stood
a girl, leaning idly against the post and watching the shadows gather
across the long walk. She was not a pretty girl, nor one that you would
care to look at twice, because of any pleasure it gave you; though had
you really studied her face there might have been something found in it
after all. There was a drawn, discontented look about her mouth, that
made the lips look thin and snappish; it even spoiled the shape of her
really pretty nose, which was straight and finely cut. The brows,
straight and black, held a heavy frown between them, and the eyes
beneath had an unsatisfied, sour look, not at all attractive. Her
forehead was altogether too high for beauty of any kind; and as though
there was a relief in making herself look just as ugly as possible, all
her hair was drawn back painfully smooth, and tucked into a net.
Everything about her, from the crooked look of her necktie to the toe of
her slipper, with its rosette gone, plainly indicated that she was
dissatisfied with herself and aided nature by her own carelessness and
indifference, to make herself just as unattractive as possible. Some one
came up behind her as she stood there indulging in thoughts anything but
pleasing and laid a gentle touch on her arm.

"Olive?"

"Well?"

"What makes you like to stay by yourself so much, and where it isn't so
nice? The yard is getting so dark, and it's real chilly. Don't you ever
get afraid?"

"Afraid here on the steps? That's silly, Jean."

"Perhaps 'tis, but I'm such a big coward; I suppose it's because I
couldn't run if anything ever was to happen;" and Jean gave a little
sigh, as she smoothed the padded top of her crutch.

Olive gave a little start, half impatient, and turned around to ask,
almost wistfully, "Jean, do you never get tired or impatient, or think
sometimes that you'd rather be dead than always walk on a crutch and
have your back grow crooked?"

"Why, Olive!" Jean lifted her beautiful eyes to look at her sister's
restless face, "I couldn't be so wicked as that, could you?"

In the twilight Olive flushed at the question and at the clear eyes
searching her face. How many, many times had she wished she was dead,
and for nothing except t