"Perhaps it is not an invitation," said Jane.

"What else is it likely to be, child?" said Mrs. McQuinch. Then, as she
thought how much pleasanter her home would be without Elinor, she
added, "After all, it will do Nelly good to get away from here. She
needs change, I think. I wish she would come down. It is too bad of her
to be always late like this."

Elinor came in presently, wearing a neglected black gown; her face pale;
her eyes surrounded by dark circles; her black hair straggling in wisps
over her forehead. Her sisters, dressed twinlike in white muslin and
gold lockets, emphasized her by contrast. Being blond and gregarious,
they enjoyed the reputation of being pretty and affectionate. They had
thriven in the soil that had starved Elinor.

"There's a letter for you from Marian," said Mrs. McQuinch.

"Thanks," said Elinor, indifferently, putting the note into her pocket.
She liked Marian's letters, and kept them to read in her hours of
solitude.

"What does she say?" said Mrs. McQuinch.

"I have not looked," replied Elinor.

"Well," said Mrs. McQuinch, plaintively, "I wish you _would_ look. I
want to know whether she says anything about this letter from your uncle
Reginald."

Elinor plucked the note from her pocket, tore it open, and read it.