“I would rather look at you any day,” Regie said, honestly, “because you do look lovely in those white fixings, but I do not see very much sense in 'em.”
“I'm afraid there isn't very much sense in them, Regie; only that we all wear them.”
“All your family?”
“Yes, all my family. And how many do you suppose there are of us?” Regie looked mystified. “There are seventy-five.” Regie looked incredulous, but he had a foolish notion of never liking to appear astonished at anything, so he said quite casually, as though he were asking the most commonplace question, “And are you the oldest of seventy-five?”
“Do you think I look old enough for that?”
“No, not exactly, but your hair is pretty gray, and no one that's young has gray hair, you know.”
“You are not far from right, Regie, but gray hair or no, I am not the oldest of my seventy-five sisters. Have you never heard of a Sisterhood,—that is, of a society of women who bind themselves together for some sort of work?”
“Oh yes, often,” said Regie, not meaning to be untruthful, but because always averse to pleading ignorance on any subject. At any rate, if he had heard of a sisterhood his ideas were somewhat vague regarding it.
“Well, I belong to such a society, and all who join it pledge themselves to follow its rules, to take the title of Sister, and to wear these white fixings as you call them, and the work of our society is to care for the sick.”
“Have you got to do it all your life?” he asked, shaking his brown head from side to side by way of sympathy.