ded note of hilarity,
took place at the door, and two women entered the car, one looking back
and nodding a final smiling farewell before she gave her mind to the
matter in hand. They were attractive women, of late middle age, perhaps,
not yet to be called old. One was large, with fine curves, gray bands of
hair under her autumnal bonnet, and a dignity of bearing which suited
her ample figure and melodious, rather deep voice; the other was paler,
more fragile, her light hair only streaked with gray, and her blue eyes
still shaded with a half-wistful uncertainty of what might be before
her, which the years had not been able to turn altogether into
self-confidence.

"You go on, Lucy," said the former, in her full, decided tones, pausing
at the first vacant seat, "and see if there's a place for us to sit
together farther down. I'll hold this for one of us. You take up less
room than I do, you know, and it's easier for you to slip about;" and
she laughed a little. There was a suggestion of laughter in the eyes and
around the mouth of each of them. It indicated a subdued exhilaration
unusual in the setting forth of women of their years and dignity. Lucy
hesitated a moment, and then moved on somewhat timidly; but she had
taken only a step when the man near whom they stood rose, and, lifting
his hat, said: "Allow me, madam, to give you this seat for yourself and
your friend. I can easily find another."

"Thank you; you are very good," replied the larger of the two women, her
kindly gray eyes meeting his with an expression that led him to pause
and put their umbrellas in the rack and depart, wondering what it was
about some women that made a man always glad to do anything for
them,--and it didn't make any difference how old they were, either.

"How nice people are!" said the one who had already spoken as they
settled themselves. "That man, now--there wasn't any need of his doing
that."

"He seemed to really want to," rejoined Lucy. "People always like to do
things for you, Mary Leonard, I believe," she added, looking at her
companion with affectionate admiration.

"I like to hear you talk," returned Mary Leonard, laughing. "If there
ever was anybody that just went through the world having people do
things for 'em, it's you, Lucy Eastman, and you know it."

"Oh, but I know so few people," said the other, hastily. "I'm not
ungrateful--I'm sure I've no call to be; but I know so few people, and
they've known me all my life;