y herself with the small duties of
the night, closing the windows and putting out the lamps. Then, with
bed-time candles after the fashion of Mrs. Caldwell's own girlhood, the
two started up the stairs, Sheila leading and lighting the way--as
youth always will, despite the riper wisdom of age. Once she smiled
over her shoulder; and before they had gained the top of the flight,
she paused and reached back her hand to help her grandmother up the
last few steps. There was something gracious and strong in the
gesture--something that had not been in the nature of the Sheila who
had bent her head to Mrs. Caldwell's knee an hour before. It was as if
the womanhood of which Mrs. Caldwell had spoken had already awakened in
her and with it, not only the longing for something of her own, but
that kindred tenderness for things little and helpless--or helpless and
old.

"Take my hand," she said sweetly, and there was in her voice the lovely
gentleness that young mothers use toward their children.

The next day, when Charlotte came to inquire why her guest had flown,
without warning and apparently without cause, she found a Sheila who,
though garbed once more in her own short frock, seemed in some
mysterious way more grown-up than she had in the trailing splendor of
the night before.

"What's happened to you?" demanded Charlotte shrewdly, when the two
girls were shut into the privacy of Sheila's little white bedroom, a
room that resembled the despised white muslin and blue sash which had
been discarded for Charlotte's furbelows. "I know _something's_
happened to you. You're--different. Did somebody make love to you?"

"Goodness, no!" denied Sheila in a horrified tone, and the alarmed
young blood rose in a slow, rich tide over her neck and face and
temples.

"Oh, you needn't be so shocked. Somebody will some day!" And
Charlotte laughed lightly out of her own precocious experience.

Of the two girls, Sheila was the one to be loved, but Charlotte was the
one to be made love to--if the love-making were only the pastime of the
hour. Charlotte was clever and daring and cold, and could take care of
herself. She knew, even at sixteen, all the rules of the game: when to
advance, when to retreat, and, most important of all, when to laugh.
But Sheila would never be able to laugh at love or love's counterpart.

"Somebody _will_ make love to you some day!" repeated Charlotte
teasingly.

"Well, nobody has yet!" Sheila assured