out Drouet's card and wrote him.

"I cannot have you call on me here. You will have to wait until
you hear from me again. My sister's place is so small."

She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. She
wanted to make some reference to their relations upon the train,
but was too timid. She concluded by thanking him for his
kindness in a crude way, then puzzled over the formality of
signing her name, and finally decided upon the severe, winding up
with a "Very truly," which she subsequently changed to
"Sincerely." She scaled and addressed the letter, and going in
the front room, the alcove of which contained her bed, drew the
one small rocking-chair up to the open window, and sat looking
out upon the night and streets in silent wonder. Finally,
wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in her
chair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for
the night and went to bed.

When she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone. Her
sister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-
room, sewing. She worked, after dressing, to arrange a little
breakfast for herself, and then advised with Minnie as to which
way to look. The latter had changed considerably since Carrie had
seen her. She was now a thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-
seven, with ideas of life coloured by her husband's, and fast
hardening into narrower conceptions of pleasure and duty than had
ever been hers in a thoroughly circumscribed youth. She had
invited Carrie, not because she longed for her presence, but
because the latter was dissatisfied at home, and could probably