d was above taking such a liberty. Miss Boggs
mentioned the incident that night at a dinner given by an ancient friend
of the Carews.

"Oh, that's the work of Lydia Carew, without a doubt!" cried the
hostess. "She visits every new family that moves to the house, but she
never remains more than a week or two with any one."

"It must be that she disapproves of them," suggested Miss Boggs.

"I think that's it," said the hostess. "She doesn't like their china, or
their fiction."

"I hope she'll disapprove of us," added Miss Prudence.

The hostess belonged to a very old Philadelphian family, and she shook
her head.

"I should say it was a compliment for even the ghost of Miss Lydia Carew
to approve of one," she said severely.

The next morning, when the sisters entered their drawing-room there were
numerous evidences of an occupant during their absence. The sofa pillows
had been rearranged so that the effect of their grouping was less
bizarre than that favored by the Western women; a horrid little Buddhist
idol with its eyes fixed on its abdomen, had been chastely hidden behind
a Dresden shepherdess, as unfit for the scrutiny of polite eyes; and
on the table where Miss Prudence did work in water colors, after the
fashion of the impressionists, lay a prim and impossible composition
representing a moss-rose and a number of heartsease, colored with that
caution which modest spinster artists instinctively exercise.

"Oh, there's no doubt it's the work of Miss Lydia Carew," said Miss
Prudence, contemptuously. "There's no mistaking the drawing of that
rigid little rose. Don't you remember those wreaths and bouquets framed,
among the pictures we got when the Carew pictures were sent to us? I
gave some of them to an orphan asylum and burned up the rest."

"Hush!" cried Miss Boggs, involuntarily. "If she heard you, it would
hurt her feelings terribly. Of course, I mean--" and she blushed. "It
might hurt her feelings--but how perfectly ridiculous! It's impossible!"

Miss Prudence held up the sketch of the moss-rose.

"THAT may be impossible in an artistic sense, but it is a palpable
thing."

"Bosh!" cried Miss Boggs.

"But," protested Miss Prudence, "how do you explain it?"

"I don't," said Miss Boggs, and left the room.

That evening the sisters made a point of being in the drawing-room
before the dusk came on, and of lighting the gas at the first hint of
twilight. They didn't believe in Miss Lydia Carew--but still