Queenie was a little hard in her judgment, as young people often are in their estimate of things and people. There was selfishness, and possibly oppression, in the continual sisterly sacrifice demanded as a right; in the unpitying claims made on the health and time so ungrudgingly bestowed upon her. In life, real life, we see these sort of sacrifices perpetually exacted before our eyes somehow. Human flesh and blood revolts against the sight. The strong, sometimes the young, compelled to put away their own life, and spend some of their best years chained to the couch of helplessness; condemned to share the burthen of an invalid existence; exposed to petty tyrannies and tempers, and bearing them out of pity for the suffering that provokes them. Sometimes, indeed, it may be a labor of love, a life within a life, of many-folded sweetnesses blossoming out of the pain, as in the case of an afflicted parent or husband. Nay, one often see admirable lives of sisterly or brotherly devotion. Yet are there sadder cases, when duty and not love is the main-spring of action; when the self-sacrifice is bitter though voluntary; when the watcher would willingly change places with the watched, that the bounding pulse of health might be subdued; that the keen suffering of repression and yearning, and God only knows what bitter measure of woman's pain, might be dulled and quieted by mere bodily weakness. To be free, only to be free, and live their own lives--that is what some women vainly crave; and then a stone is given them for bread. Instead of work comes waiting--the hardest and most trying form of work; instead of freedom a mesh of finely-woven duties, light as gossamer threads, yet binding the conscience like cart-ropes. Queenie sat and mused with inward rebellion while Charity talked about her books, and showed her manuscript volumes of finely-copied extracts. "I always write out passages that please me; it is such a resource to read them afterwards. I want Faith to do the same, but she likes mending and watering her flowers. I prefer thoughts to flowers, Miss Marriott." "Every one has a right to their taste. I think I share Miss Faith's," returned the girl, a little ungraciously. She felt no pity for the bright-eyed, faded little woman, who made so much of her life, and hid away her sufferings bravely, much as the silk, patched coverlet hid the useless shrunken limbs. She would not even allow to Cathy that she could have ever been pretty, as they walked home together through the summer rain. "Her face does not attract me in the least, there is nothing in it; and then her cheek-bones are so high, and her curls are so thin and limp. Now, if she only braided them nicely under a little close cap--and then her tongue; oh, Cathy! I think she would drive me distracted in a week." But Cathy stood up stoutly for Miss Charity.