"You need some clothes, and you used to be so fond of them." "That was before the children came. I've never cared much since. It's just as if life were a completed circle, somehow. There's nothing more to expect or to wait for--you'll understand what I mean some day, Susan." "I think I do now. But only women are like that? Men are different----" It was the classic phrase again, but on Susan's lips it sounded with a new significance. "And some women are different, too," replied Virginia. "Now there's Abby Goode--Susan, what do you honestly think of Abby?" There was a wistful note in the question, and around her gentle blue eyes appeared a group of little lines, brought out by the nervous contraction of her forehead. Was it the wan, smoky light of the dusk?--Susan wondered, or was Virginia really beginning to break so soon? "Why, I like Abby. I always did," she answered, trying to look as if she did not understand what Virginia had meant. "She's a little bit what John Henry calls 'loud,' but she has a good heart and would do anybody a kindness." She had evaded answering, just as Virginia had evaded asking, the question which both knew had passed unuttered between them--was Abby to be trusted to keep inviolate the ancient unwritten pledge of honourable womanhood? Her character was being tested by the single decisive virtue exacted of her sex. "I am glad you feel that way," said Virginia in a relieved manner after a minute, "because I should hate not to believe in Abby, and some people don't understand her manner--mother among them." "Oh, she's all right. I'm sure of it," answered Susan, with heartiness. The wistful sound had passed out of Virginia's voice, while the little lines faded as suddenly from the corners of her eyes. She looked better already--only she really ought not to wear such dowdy clothes, even though she was happily married, reflected Susan, as she watched her, a few minutes later, pass over the mulberry leaves, which lay, thick and still, on the sidewalk.