The Girls of St. Wode's

Eileen, Marjorie, and Letitia Chetwynd were expected home from school. It was a bright day early in April, and Mrs. Chetwynd was seated in her luxurious London drawing-room conversing with her special friend, Mrs. Acheson. Two years ago Mrs. Chetwynd, on the death of her husband, a distinguished Indian officer, had returned to England. She was a fashionable, up-to-date-looking lady now. Her widow's dress was carefully chosen-not too depressing, but all that was correct and proper. Mrs. Acheson, also the widow of an Indian officer, was not fashionable in the ordinary acceptance of the word. She was plainly, even shabbily, dressed. She wore long weepers to her widow's cap, and her hair was brushed smoothly away from her broad forehead. Her face was large and somewhat sunburnt, her hands well shaped, but with a look about them which showed that they were not unacquainted with manual labor. "Yes," said Mrs. Chetwynd, uttering a sigh as she spoke, "this is a great day for me. The girls are educated, and are coming home." "For good?" said Mrs. Acheson.