melting their mood to such glowing confidences as they had not
exchanged since Mary was in her teens. No lamps were lighted. The widow
was frugal with gas when eyes were idle; her extravagant sister loved
firelight to talk in.

But for a while it seemed that Mary had nothing particular to
communicate. Deb did not like to put direct questions, but again and
again led the conversation in the likely direction, to find Mary
avoiding it like a shying horse. She would not talk of her husband, but
interested herself for an hour in the subject of Guthrie Carey,
Guthrie's wife, his child, his home, discussing the matter with a
calmness that made Deb forget how delicate a one it was. Then Mary had
a hundred questions to ask (probably on Bob's account) about the
Countess, of whom she had known nothing of late years, while Deb had
learned something from time to time, and could give an approximately
true tale. Quite another hour was taken up with Francie's wrongs and
wrong-doings, as to which Deb was more frank with this sister than she
would have been with Rose.

"It is no use blinking the fact," she said straight out, "that Francie
is no better than she should be. I can't understand it; no Pennycuick
that ever I heard of took that line before. She has a dog's life with
that ruffian, no doubt; and of course the poor child never had a chance
to enjoy the right thing in the right way--though that was her own
fault--"

"I don't think," Mary broke in, "that ANYTHING is ANYBODY'S
fault."

"That's a most dangerous heathen doctrine, my dear, but I'll admit