rests squeezed in between the coachman's legs? Two stout straps keep it
from bursting, and the crinkled brown leather of its sides is completely
pasted over with the mementoes used by the hosts of the Old World to
speed the parting guest. "London" and "Paris" shine in the lustre of the
last fortnight; "Tangier" is distinctly visible; "Buda-Pest" may be
readily inferred despite the overlapping labels of "Wien" and "Bale";
while away off to one corner a crumpled and lingering shred points back,
though uncertainly, to the Parthenon and the Acropolis. And in the midst
of this flowery field is planted a large M after the best style of the
White Star Line.

Who has come home bearing all these sheaves?

Is it, to begin with, the young girl who shares the front seat with the
driver, and who faces with an innocent unconcern all the clamor and evil
of a great city? There is a half-smile on her red lips, and her black
eyes sparkle with a girlish gayety--for she does not know how bad the
world is. At the same time her chin advances confidently, and her dark
eyebrows contract with a certain soft imperiousness--for she does not
know how hard the world is nor how unyielding. Sometimes she withdraws
her glance from the jostling throng to study the untidy and overlapping
labels on the big portmanteau; she betrays a certain curiosity, but she
shows at the same time a full determination not to seem over-impressed.
No, the returned traveller is not Rosy Marshall; all that _she_ knows of
life she has learned from the broadcast cheapness of English
story-tellers and from a short year's schooling in New York.

Is it, then, the older girl who fills half of the rear seat and who, as
the cruel phrase goes, will never see thirty again? She seems to be tall
and lean, and one divines, somehow, that her back is narrow and of a