Katherine stood by the broad window in the sewing room in her favorite attitude, her head sideways against the pane, her eyes languidly gazing upon the Bay, fingers drumming this time a very slow march on the window sill. Dorothy sat in a rocking-chair, reading a letter for the second time. There had been silence in the room for some minutes, accentuated rather than broken by the quiet drumming of the girl’s fingers on the window sill. Finally Katherine breathed a deep sigh and murmured to herself: “‘Far called our Navy fades away, On dune and headland sinks the fire. Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre.’ I wonder if I’ve got the lines right,” she whispered to herself. She had forgotten there was anyone else in the room, and was quite startled when Dorothy spoke. “Kate, that’s a solemn change, from Gilbert to Kipling. I always judge your mood by your quotations. Has life suddenly become too serious for ‘Pinafore’ or the ‘Mikado’?” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Katherine, without turning round. “They are humorous all, and so each furnishes something suitable for the saddened mind. Wisdom comes through understanding your alphabet properly. For instance, first there was Gilbert, and that gave us G; then came Kipling, and he gave us K; thus we get an algebraic formula, G.K., which are the initials of Chesterton, a still later arrival, and as the mind increases in despondency it sinks lower and lower down the alphabet until it comes to S, and thus we have Barn-yard Shaw, an improvement on the Kail-yard school, who takes the O pshaw view of life. And relaxing hold of him I sink deeper until I come to W--W. W. Jacobs--how I wish he wrote poetry! He should be the humorist of all sailors, and perhaps some time he will desert barges for battleships. Then I shall read him with increased enjoyment.” “I wouldn’t give Mark Twain for the lot,” commented Dorothy with decision. “Mark Twain isn’t yours to give, my dear. He belongs to me also. You’ve forgotten that comparisons are odious. Our metier is not to compare, but to take what pleases us from each. ‘How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower. Watts. You see, I’m still down among the W’s. Oh, Dorothy, how can you sit there so placidly when the ‘Consternation’ has just faded from sight? Selfish creature! ‘Oh, give me tears for others’ woes And patience for mine own.’ I don’t know who wrote that, but you have no tears for others’ woes, merely greeting them with ribald laughter,” for Dorothy, with the well-read letter in her hand, was making the rafters ring with her merriment, something that had never before happened during her long tenancy of that room. Kate turned her head slowly round, and the expression on her face was half-indignant, half-humorous, while her eyes were uncertain weather prophets, and gave equal indication of sunshine or rain.”