longingly did she regard it as the crisp, starchy breadths of it slid
between her fingers. But whatever were her longings, she said nothing of
them; she bent over the sewing-machine humming an Old-World melody. In
every straight, smooth seam, perhaps, she tucked away some lingering
impulse of childhood; but she matched the scrolls and flowers with the
utmost care. If a sudden shock of rebellion made her straighten up for
an instant, the next instant she was bending to adjust a ruffle to the
best advantage. And when the momentous day arrived, and the little
sister and I stood up to be arrayed, it was Frieda herself who patted
and smoothed my stiff new calico; who made me turn round and round, to
see that I was perfect; who stooped to pull out a disfiguring
basting-thread. If there was anything in her heart besides sisterly love
and pride and good-will, as we parted that morning, it was a sense of
loss and a woman's acquiescence in her fate; for we had been close
friends, and now our ways would lie apart. Longing she felt, but no
envy. She did not grudge me what she was denied. Until that morning we
had been children together, but now, at the fiat of her destiny she
became a woman, with all a woman's cares; whilst I, so little younger
than she, was bidden to dance at the May festival of untroubled
childhood.

I wish, for my comfort, that I could say that I had some notion of the
difference in our lots, some sense of the injustice to her, of the
indulgence to me. I wish I could even say that I gave serious thought to
the matter. There had always been a distinction between us rather out of
proportion to the difference in our years. Her good health and domestic
instincts had made it natural for her to become my mother's right hand,
in the years preceding the emigration, when there were no more servants
or dependents. Then there was the family tradition that Mary was the
quicker, the brighter of the two, and that hers could be no common lot.