"WHO'S at the front door?" asked Luella's mother, coming in from the kitchen with a dish-towel in her hand. "I thought I heard the door-bell." "Luella's gone to the door," said her sister from her vantage-point at the crack of the sitting-room door. "It looks to me like a telegraph boy." "It couldn't be, Crete," said Luella's mother impatiently, coming to see for herself. "Who would telegraph now that Hannah's dead?" Lucretia was short and dumpy, with the comfortable, patient look of the maiden aunt that knows she is indispensable because she will meekly take all the burdens that no one else wants to bear. Her sister could easily look over her head into the hall, and her gaze was penetrative and alert. "I'm sure I don't know, Carrie," said Lucretia apprehensively; "but I'm all of a tremble. Telegrams are dreadful things."