That day, when the two girls left the back room, they went straight to Madge's, where they talked over the arrival of Jerry O'Brien, for whom Edith strongly suspected Madge had a warmer feeling than friendship, and who, she felt morally certain, greatly to her secret delight, was over head and ears in love with Madge. The only human being in whom she had infinite faith was Madge. She did not consider any hero or conqueror of history good enough for her sister. To her mind, there was only one flaw in Madge: Madge would not worship Madge. Madge thought every one else in the world of consequence but herself. Edith thought Madge the only absolutely perfect person living, or that ever had lived--leaving out, of course, the important defect just mentioned. The younger girl had, in human affairs, a certain hardness and common-sense plainness which shocked the more sensitive sister. For instance, she could not see anything at all pathetic in Mrs. Davenport's situation. Before the bell rang for luncheon, she said to her sister: "I can't for the life of me see what is so terribly melancholy in Mrs. Davenport's case. I think she got out of it rather well. She didn't care anything for that dreadful old man who poisoned himself out of some horrid kind of spite. She hasn't been put in prison, and he left her a whole lot of money. So that as she isn't exactly an old maid, or a grandmother, she can marry any other horrid old man she likes. Oh, yes; I know she's very beautiful, and what you call young, Madge. She's not fifty yet, I suppose. Every woman _is_ young now until she's forty or fifty; and as to men, they don't seem to grow old now at any age. As long as a man doesn't use crutches, they say he is in the full vigour of manhood--that he's not marriageable until he's gray, and bald, and deaf of one ear, or can't read even with glasses. I suppose father will make her stop for dinner. I thought I'd laugh outright when I saw him go to her and call her 'child.' Child! Fancy calling a widow _child!_ If ever he calls me child again, I'll tell him, as far as I know, I have not buried any husband yet. But, Madge, if she _does_ stop for dinner, I'm not going to sit there and learn the very latest thing in the manners of widows. I'll go out for a walk after luncheon. Do you know, I think Jerry O'Brien is half in love with this beautiful widow! I'll ask him to come with me, I will; and you, good-natured fool, may sit within and catch the airs and graces of early widowhood, though I don't think they'll ever be of any use to you. You're certain to die an old maid. Alfred can't keep his eyes off her. It's a pity we haven't that nice Mr. Blake here--her old sweetheart. There, Madge, I don't mean a word I say, especially about Jerry O'Brien. I know he's madly in love with me. I'm going to give him a chance of proposing this evening. We'll walk as far as the Palace, and if you get separated from us, and see me holding my