Gertrude, kneeling on the floor, bent over them with anxious face, setting some aside, consigning others ruthlessly to the waste-paper basket. One, larger and more travel-worn than the rest, she held some time in her hand, as though weighing it in the balance. It was labelled: _Charlotte Corday; a tragedy in five acts_; and for a time its fate seemed uncertain; but it found its way ultimately to the basket. A smart tap at the door roused Gertrude from her somewhat melancholy occupation. "Come in!" she cried, pushing back the straying locks from the ample arch of her forehead, but retaining her seat among the manuscripts. The handle turned briskly, and a blooming young woman, dressed in the height of fashion, entered the room. "My dear Gertrude, what's this? Rachel weeping among her children?" She spoke in high tones, but with an exaggeration of buoyancy which bespoke nervousness. When last these friends had met, it had been in the chamber of death itself; it was a little difficult, after that solemn moment, to renew the every-day relations of life without shock or jar. "Come in, Conny, and if you must quote the Bible, don't misquote it." Constance Devonshire, heedless of her magnificent attire, cast herself down by the side of her friend, and put her arms caressingly round her. Her quick blue eye fell upon the basket with its overflowing papers. "Gerty, what is the meaning of this massacre of the innocents?" "'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher,' since you seem bent on Scriptural allusion, Conny." "But, Gerty, all your tales and things! I should have thought"--she blushed as she made the suggestion--"that you might have sold them. And _Charlotte Corday_, too!" "Poor Charlotte, she has been to market so often that I cannot bear the sight of her; and now I have given her her quietus as the Republic gave it to her original. As for the other victims, they are not worth a tear, and we will not discuss them." She gathered up the remaining manuscripts, and put them in a drawer; then, turning to her friend with a smile, demanded from her an account of herself. Miss Devonshire's presence, alien as it was to her present mood, acted with a stimulating effect on Gertrude. To Conny she knew herself to be a very tower of strength; and such knowledge is apt to make us strong, at least for the time being. "Oh, there's nothing new about me!" answered Conny, wrinkling her handsome, discontented face. "Gerty, why won't you come to us, you and Lucy, and let the others go to India?" Gertrude laughed at this summary disposal of the family. "Of course I knew you wouldn't come," said Conny, in an injured voice; "but, seriously, Gerty, what are you going to do?" In a few words Gertrude sketched the plan which she had propounded to her sisters that morning. "I don't believe it is possible," said Miss Devonshire, with great promptness; "but it sounds very nice," she added with a sigh, and thought, perhaps, of her own prosperous boredom.