Elliott, conducted through the house to a wide veranda, sank into a chair, conscious in every nerve of her own slender waistline. What must it feel like to be so big? A minute later she seemed to herself to be engulfed between two mountains of flesh. A woman--more unwieldy, more shapeless, more oppressive even than the girl--waddled across the veranda floor. What she said Elliott really didn't know; afterward phrases of pleasure came back to her vaguely. She distinctly remembered the creaking of the rocking-chair when the woman sat down and her own frightened feeling lest some vital part should give way under the strain. After a time, to her consciousness, mild blue eyes emerged from the mass of human bulk that fronted her; gray hair crinkled away from a broad white forehead. Then she perceived that Mrs. Gordon was not a very tall woman, not so tall as was her daughter. If anything, that made it worse, thought Elliott. Why, if she fell down, no one could tell which side up she ought to go--except, of course, head side on top. The idea gave her a hysterical desire to giggle. The fact that it would be so dreadful to laugh in this house made the desire almost uncontrollable. And then the big girl did laugh about something or other, laughed simply and naturally and really pleasantly. Elliott almost jumped again, she was so startled. To her, there was something repulsive in the sight of so much human flesh. At the same time it discouraged her. In the presence of these two she felt insignificant, even while she pitied them. She wished to get away, but instinctive breeding held her in her chair, chatting. She hoped what she said wasn't too inane; she didn't know quite what she did say. Just then suddenly Harriet Gordon asked a question: "Has your aunt said anything yet about a picnic this summer?" "I heard her say this afternoon that she felt just like one," said Elliott. Mother and daughter looked at each other triumphantly. "What did I tell you!" said one. "I thought it was about time," said the other. "Jessica Cameron always feels like a picnic in midsummer," Mrs. Gordon explained. "After the haying 's done. You tell her my little niece will want to go. Alma has been here three weeks and we haven't been able to do much for her. Do you think you will go, too, Harriet?" "I'd rather not this time, Mother." "The Bliss girls will probably go, and Alma knows them pretty well. She won't be lonesome." "Oh, no," said Elliott, "we will see that she isn't lonely." "Must you go? Tell Mrs. Cameron we will send our limousine whenever she says the word." On the way back through the house Harriet Gordon paused before the picture of a young man in aviator's uniform. "My brother," she said simply, and there was infinite pride in her voice.