I
One morning a letter addressed to Miss Janet Barr was delivered at a house in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. The writing was legible enough, but a new and somewhat flustered servant placed the letter next to Miss Emily Barr's plate. This young lady, Janet's older sister, was the first member of the family to reach the breakfast table. She was one of those well-filled-out single women who abound in the better districts of Brooklyn, and who look more matronly than a great many married women, perhaps because their figures have not been pared down by wedlock in middle-class circumstances.
Casually she picked up the envelope and opened it. She laid the enclosure down before she had read very far, took it up again, laid it down a second time, and then surveyed it with painful indecision. Finally she rang for the maid.
"Laura, have you called Miss Janet?"
"Not yet, Miss Emily. She told me not to call her before half past eight this morning. She said—"
"Never mind. Don't call her until I tell you to."
"Very well, ma'am."
After the girl had gone, Emily took the letter and went upstairs to the back sitting room. She did not allow the turmoil within her to disturb her dignity or quicken her pace. She found her mother seated in a rocking chair and musing over a passage from the Bible that lay open on her lap.
"Good morning, my child," said Mrs. Barr, as her daughter entered. "You must have made short work of breakfast. Are you late?"
"No, mother, I've brought you a letter I opened by mistake. It is directed to Janet."