Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occa-sioned much comment. By its terms she had pro-vided sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's edu-cation and living until he should graduate; and her house, with all her personal property, and the bulk of the sum from which she had derived her own income, fell to her granddaughter Annie. Annie had always been her grandmother's favorite. There had been covert dismay when the contents of the will were made known, then one and all had congratulated the beneficiary, and said abroad that they were glad dear Annie was so well provided for. It was inti-mated by Imogen and Eliza that probably dear Annie would not marry, and in that case Grand-mother Loomis's bequest was so fortunate. She had probably taken that into consideration. Grand-mother Loomis had now been dead four years, and her deserted home had been for rent, furnished, but it had remained vacant.
Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after she had cleared away the supper-table and washed the dishes she went up to her room, carefully re-arranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she sat down beside a window and waited and watched, her pointed chin in a cup of one little thin hand, her soft muslin skirts circling around her, and the scent of queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon of her grandmother's which she had tied around her waist. The ancient scent always clung to the rib-bon, suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and roses and violets of some old summer-time.
Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, which was silvered over with moonlight. Annie's four sisters all sat out there. They had spread a rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs.
There were five chairs, although there were only four girls. Annie gazed over the yard and down the street. She heard the chatter of the girls, which was inconsequent and absent, as if their minds were on other things than their conversation. Then sud-denly she saw a small red gleam far down the street, evidently that of a cigar, and also a dark, moving figure. Then there ensued a subdued wrangle in the yard. Imogen insisted that her sisters should go into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most vehemently. Imogen was arrogant and compelling.
Finally she drove them all into the house except Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of yielding.
Imogen was obliged to speak very softly lest the ap-proaching man hear, but Annie, in the window above her, heard every word.
"You know he is coming to see me," said Imogen, passionately. "You know -- you know, Eliza, and yet every single time he comes, here are you girls, spying and listening.""He comes to see Annie, I believe," said Eliza, in her stubborn voice, which yet had indecision in it.
"He never asks for her."
"He never has a chance. We all tell him, the minute he comes in, that she is out. But now I am going to stay, anyway.""Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot.
If you girls can't have a beau yourselves, you be-grudge one to me. I never saw such a house as this for a man to come courting in.""I will stay," said Eliza, and this time her voice was wholly firm. "There is no use in my going, anyway, for the others are coming back."It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by that time Tom Reed had reached the gate, and his cigar was going out in a shower of sparks on the gravel walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and urging upon his acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, watching, saw that the young man seemed to hesi-tate. Then her heart leaped and she heard him speak quite plainly, with a note of defiance and irri-tation, albeit with embarrassment.
"Is Miss Annie in?" asked Tom Reed.
Imogen answered first, and her harsh voice was honey-sweet.
"I fear dear Annie is out," she said. "She will be so sorry to miss you."Annie, at her window, made a sudden passionate motion, then she sat still and listened. She argued fiercely that she was right in so doing. She felt that the time had come when she must know, for the sake of her own individuality, just what she had to deal with in the natures of her own kith and kin. Dear Annie had turned in her groove of sweetness and gentle yielding, as all must turn who have any strength of character underneath the sweetness and gentleness. Therefore Annie, at her window above, listened.
At first she heard little that bore upon herself, for the conversation was desultory, about the weather and general village topics. Then Annie heard her own name. She was "dear Annie," as usual. She listened, fairly faint with amazement. What she heard from that quartette of treble voices down there in the moonlight seemed almost like a fairy-tale.
The sisters did not violently incriminate her. They were too astute for that. They told half-truths.
They told truths which were as shadows of the real facts, and yet not to be contradicted. They built up between them a story marvelously consist-ent, unless prearranged, and that Annie did not think possible. George Wells figured in the tale, and there were various hints and pauses concerning herself and her own character in daily life, and not one item could be flatly denied, even if the girl could have gone down there and, standing in the midst of that moonlit group, given her sisters the lie.
Everything which they told, the whole structure of falsehood, had beams and rafters of truth. Annie felt helpless before it all. To her fancy, her sisters and Tom Reed seemed actually sitting in a fairy building whose substance was utter falsehood, and yet which could not be utterly denied. An awful sense of isolation possessed her. So these were her own sisters, the sisters whom she had loved as a matter of the simplest nature, whom she had ad-mired, whom she had served.
She made no allowance, since she herself was per-fectly normal, for the motive which underlay it all.
