By three the last guests had gone. Allen, hardly waiting for the door to slam on them, stumbled sleepily to bed, and June followed, a wearied sprite, bits of torn gauze trailing from her skirt, the wreath of jasmine blossoms she wore faded and broken, the starry flowers caught in her curls. “Rosie, I’m too tired to stay up a minute longer,” she called from the stairs, catching a glimpse of the dismantled parlor with Rosamund, followed by a yawning Chinaman, turning out lights and locking windows. “Go up, dear,” answered Rosamund in her most maternal tone. “I’ll be up in a minute. Sing’s so sleepy I know he’ll go to bed and leave everything open if I don’t stay till he’s done.” The sisters occupied two large rooms, broad-windowed and spacious, in the front of the house. The door of connection was never shut. They talked together as they dressed, walking from room to room. The tie between them, that had never been broken by a week’s separation, was unusually close even for sisters so near of an age, so united by mutual cares and past sorrows. June’s room shone bright in the lights from the two ground-glass globes which protruded on gilded supports from either side of the bureau mirror. It was furnished in the heavily gorgeous manner of the period and place. Long curtains of coarse lace fell over the windows, which above were garnished with pale blue satin lambrequins elaborately draped. The deeply tufted and upholstered furniture was covered with a blue-and-white cretonne festooned with woolen tassels and fringes. Over the foot of the huge bed lay a satin eiderdown quilt of the same shade as the lambrequins. June, completely exhausted, was soon in bed, and lying peacefully curled on her side waited for her sister’s footsteps. As she heard the creak of Rosamund’s opening door she called softly: “Come in here. I want to talk. I’ve millions of things to say to you.” Rosamund swept rustling into the room and sat down on the side of the bed. Her dress was neither crushed nor torn and the bloom of her countenance was unimpaired by fatigue. “Dear Rosie, you look so lovely,” said June, curling her little body under the clothes comfortably round her sister. “There was nobody here to-night half as good-looking as you were.” She lightly touched. Rosamund’s arm with the tips of her fingers, murmuring to herself, “Lovely, marbly arms like a statue!” Her sister, indifferent to these compliments, which she did not appear to hear, sat looking at the toe of her slipper. “I think it was a great success,” she said. “Everybody seemed to enjoy it.” “Of course they did. I know I did. I never had such a beautiful, galumptious time in my life.” Rosamund gave her a gravely inspecting side-glance. “You tore your dress round the bottom, I saw. There was quite a large piece trailing on the floor.”