Clara—Mrs. Pierce Wendell—caught sight of Isabel—Mrs. James Dent—before she was fairly inside brother Stephen’s doors. Clara was fair and fine and impressive in elaborate widow’s mourning and an air of haughtiness which became decidedly more pronounced at sight of her sister Isabel. Mrs. Dent was tall and thin, and very quietly, almost austerely, dressed. The one lived in town, the other in the country. But just why these differences in mere outward circumstance should have brought about such a breach of feeling that they could barely greet each other with courtesy was a subject to which the elder brother, who awaited them in his own room, had given much thought. But he did not attempt to force matters. When Isabel, standing beside his chair, nodded coolly at Clara as she approached, and then moved immediately away without further greeting, Stephen took no notice. If they could have seen, his eyes took on a certain peculiar deeper shadowing which meant that his heart was intimately concerned with the matter of the sisterly estrangement. But his welcoming smile as he greeted Clara was as bright as the one he had lately turned upon Isabel, and the questions concerning her welfare with which he detained her showed as brotherly an interest as if he had not been quite sure within himself that Clara was the offender most deeply at fault. The Christmas guests arrived in instalments. By noon George’s and William’s families had come—on the same train, although each had taken pains to ascertain that the other was likely to await a later hour. At three in the afternoon Sylvester and Mrs. Sylvester had pulled up in a big, shiny brown limousine, accompanied by Mrs. Sylvester’s maid, and driven by a chauffeur swathed in furs to the tip of his nose, as were also Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester. There were no children; it was the one childless branch of the family. "Seems as if they might have brought somebody else in that great traveling opera-box," declared Mrs. George to Mrs. Clara from the library window. "They came straight by our house if they came the Williamsville road, as I’ve no doubt they did. That machine will hold seven. I shouldn’t say it to Stephen, but it looks to me as if the more money Sylvester makes the closer he gets." "That’s _her_ fault," responded Clara, watching between the curtains as her brother Sylvester’s wife, in furs which cost several times the amount of Mrs. Clara’s own, came somewhat languidly up the walk. "She’s getting so exclusive she’s likely to cut Sylvester’s family at almost any time. Since the trouble between Sylvester and Samuel——" "I heard through Matilda that they barely speak now," whispered Mrs. George hurriedly. The library had been invaded with a rush by seven children and a dog—the dog, Uncle Stephen’s old Fido, nearly out of his head with excitement over the unexpected advent of such an army of playfellows.