The ladies had an unusual and most painful sense of failure, as they went home together that evening. “I have always made it my object to improve and interest the people at such times; it would seem so possible to elevate their thoughts and direct them into higher channels,” said Miss Dobin sadly. “But as for that Woolden woman, there is no use in casting pearls before swine!” Miss Lucinda murmured an indignant assent. She had a secret suspicion that the Woolden woman had heard the story in question oftener than had pleased her. She was but an ignorant creature; though she had lived in Dulham twelve or thirteen years, she was no better than when she came. The mistake was in treating sister Harriet as if she were on a level with the rest of the company. Miss Lucinda had observed more than once, lately, that her sister sometimes repeated herself, unconsciously, a little oftener than was agreeable. Perhaps they were getting a trifle dull; towards spring it might be well to pass a few days with some of their friends, and have a change. “If I have tried to do anything,” said Miss Dobin in an icy tone, “it has been to stand firm in my lot and place, and to hold the standard of cultivated mind and elegant manners as high as possible. You would think it had been a hundred years since our mother’s death, so completely has the effect of her good breeding and exquisite hospitality been lost sight of, here in Dulham. I could wish that our father had chosen to settle in a larger and more appreciative place. They would like to put us on the shelf, too. I can see that plainly.” “I am sure we have our friends,” said Miss Lucinda anxiously, but with a choking voice. “We must not let them think we do not mean to keep up with the times, as we always have. I do feel as if perhaps—our hair”— And the sad secret was out at last. Each of the sisters drew a long breath of relief at this beginning of a confession. It was certain that they must take some steps to retrieve their lost ascendency. Public attention had that evening been called to their fast-disappearing locks, poor ladies; and Miss Lucinda felt the discomfort most, for she had been the inheritor of the Hightree hair, long and curly, and chestnut in color. There used to be a waviness about it, and sometimes pretty escaping curls, but these were gone long ago. Miss Dobin resembled her father, and her hair had not been luxuriant, so that she was less changed by its absence than one might suppose. The straightness and thinness had increased so gradually that neither sister had quite accepted the thought that other persons would particularly notice their altered appearance.