Phebe McAlister sat on the floor beside an open trunk. Around her was scattered a pile of feminine mysteries, twice as bulky as the trunk from which they had come, and the bed was littered with gowns as varied in hue as in material. Pink chiffon met green broadcloth, and white silk and blue gingham nestled side by side with a friendly disregard of the fact that their paths in life would not often bring them together. The whole room was in a wild state of disarray. The only orderly object in it was Phebe herself. A girl of the early twenties, perfect in health and in trim neatness, never lacks a certain attractiveness; but Phebe went beyond that. At a first glance, her features might be condemned as irregular, her eyes as too piercing, her lips and chin as too firm. The next moment, all that was forgotten. Phebe was rarely silent for more than one moment at a time. As soon as she spoke, her face lighted and became whimsical, piquant, merry, or fiery as suited her mood; and Phebe's friends were never agreed as to which of her moods was most becoming. Pretty she was not, beautiful she was not; but she was undeniably interesting, and at times brilliantly handsome. She looked up, as Theodora came into the room. "How do? Sit down," she said briefly. "I came over to see if I couldn't help you with your unpacking," Theodora said, as she paused beside the trunk. "Thank you, no. I can do it." "But it is such a trial. I love to pack; but unpacking is always rather an anti-climax." "I don't mind it," Phebe said calmly, while she sorted stockings industriously. "Let me do that," Theodora urged. "No; it might be a trial to you, and I really don't mind. Sit down and look at my photographs. They are in the third box from the top of the pile in the corner." "Methodical as ever, Phebe?" "I have to be. It takes too much time to sort out things. Your bureau drawers would give me a fit." Phebe rolled up her stockings with an emphatic jerk. "It is no credit to you to be orderly, Babe; you were born so. I wasn't," Theodora said tranquilly, as she took up the photographs. "Billy's bump of order is large enough for both of us, though." "I should think you would be terribly trying to him," Phebe remarked frankly. "Poor old William! Perhaps I am; but he is considerate enough not to mention it." Phebe rose to bestow an armful of clothing in a bureau drawer. "He looks so well." she said. "I do wish his mother could see him. She worries about him even now, and gets anxious if the letters are delayed. If she could see him, she would leave that off. He is ever so much stronger than when we went away." "Married life agrees with him. What is this, Babe? It isn't marked." "It's the hotel at the foot of the Rigi, not a good picture, but I hadn't time to get any other." "Was that where you left Mrs. Farrington?" "Yes." "What made you do it, Babe?"