Who were my companions on my first day at school?  Whose hand was in mine, as I stood, overcome with awe, by the teacher’s desk, and whispered my name as my father prompted?  Was it Frieda’s steady, capable hand?  Was it her loyal heart that throbbed, beat for beat with mine, as it had done through all our childish adventures?  Frieda’s heart did throb that day, but not with my emotions.  My heart pulsed with joy and pride and ambition; in her heart longing fought with abnegation.  For I was led to the schoolroom, with its sunshine and its singing and the teacher’s cheery smile; while she was led to the workshop, with its foul air, care-lined faces, and the foreman’s stern command.  Our going to school was the fulfilment of my father’s best promises to us, and Frieda’s share in it was to fashion and fit the calico frocks in which the baby sister and I made our first appearance in a public schoolroom.

I remember to this day the gray pattern of the calico, so affectionately did I regard it as it hung upon the wall—­my consecration robe awaiting the beatific day.  And Frieda, I am sure, remembers it, too, so longingly did she regard it as the crisp, starchy breadths of it slid between her fingers.  But whatever were her longings, she said nothing of them; she bent over the sewing-machine humming an Old-World melody.  In every straight, smooth seam, perhaps, she tucked away some lingering impulse of childhood; but she matched the scrolls and flowers with the utmost care.  If a sudden shock of rebellion made her straighten up for an instant, the next instant she was bending to adjust a ruffle to the best advantage.  And when the momentous day arrived, and the little sister and I stood up to be arrayed, it was Frieda herself who patted and smoothed my stiff new calico; who made me turn round and round, to see that I was perfect; who stooped to pull out a disfiguring basting-thread.  If there was anything in her heart besides sisterly love and pride and good-will, as we parted that morning, it was a sense of loss and a woman’s acquiescence in her fate; for we had been close friends, and now our ways would lie apart.  Longing she felt, but no envy.  She did not grudge me what she was denied.  Until that morning we had been children together, but now, at the fiat of her destiny she became a woman, with all a woman’s cares; whilst I, so little younger than she, was bidden to dance at the May festival of untroubled childhood.

I wish, for my comfort, that I could say that I had some notion of the difference in our lots, some sense of the injustice to her, of the indulgence to me.  I wish I could even say that I gave serious thought to the matter.  There had always been a distinction between us rather out of proportion to the difference in our years.  Her good health and domestic instincts had made it natural for her to become my mother’s right hand, in the years preceding the emigration, when there were no more servants or dependents.