ntastic name for it--"Other-Sheila"--she probably
found the true name for something that the psychologists define far
more clumsily.

But stung into sensitiveness by Ted's taunt about her queerness, she
kept her discovery of Other-Sheila to herself. Not even to Mrs.
Caldwell, who was a friend as well as a grandmother; not even to Peter,
who was all the while feeding her eager young mind with food both
wholesome and stimulating, and becoming, in his task, a comrade who
rivalled Ted in her affections, did she confide the existence of this
other self. With self-consciousness came the instinct of reserve--not
a lack of frankness, but a kind of modesty of the soul.

She had passed her fifteenth birthday before Other-Sheila roused her to
unrest. Until that time, the shadowy self dwelling deep within her,
and every now and then flashing forth elusively just long enough to
manifest its reality, had been a secret and delightful companion, one
with whom she held animated conversations when alone, and from whose
acquiescence to all her wishes and opinions she extracted considerable
comfort.

"Other-Sheila," she would say to herself, "is the only person who
always agrees with me." And then she would add, with a glint of
whimsical humor in her gray eyes, "I reckon that's what an Other-Sheila
is _for_!"

But after a while Other-Sheila became less acquiescent and more
assertive. And for the first time in her life, Sheila felt within her
the troubling spirit of discontent. She wanted something, wanted it
desperately as the very young always do, but she did not know what that
something was. It was a tantalizing experience, and she saw no end to
it.

"If I could only find out _what_ I want, I might get it," she mused.
And then, "Don't you know what it is, Other-Sheila?" But Other-Sheila
was provokingly unresponsive, though it was probably her desire that
fretted the objective Sheila's mind.

Mrs. Caldwell saw the unrest in the young girl's face and recognized it
for what it was--the unrest of growth. It was a look of unborn things
stirring beneath the surface, stirring and quivering as flowers must
stir and tremble beneath the ground before they break their way through
to the sun. But though she watched eagerly from day to day, ready to
do her part when the hour for it should come, Mrs. Caldwell was too
wise a gardener to hasten bloom.

"Peter," said she one day, when he had paused in an indolent stroll to
chat with h