naturally, taken no part in her brother’s family pretensions.  He had given her an independent allowance, and she was supposed to be equally a sharer in his good fortune.  Yet she had suddenly declared her intention of returning to Atherly, to consult him on affairs of importance.  Peter was both surprised and eager; there was but little affection between them, but, preoccupied with his one idea, he was satisfied that she wanted to talk about the family.

But he was amazed, disappointed, and disconcerted.  For Jenny Atherly, the sober recluse of Santa Clara, hidden in her sombre draperies at the funeral, was no longer to be recognized in the fashionable, smartly but somewhat over-dressed woman he saw before him.  In spite of her large features and the distinguishing Roman nose, like his own, she looked even pretty in her excitement.  She had left the convent, she was tired of the life there, she was satisfied that a religious vocation would not suit her.  In brief, she intended to enjoy herself like other women.  If he really felt a pride in the family he ought to take her out, like other brothers, and “give her a show.”  He could do it there if he liked, and she would keep house for him.  If he didn’t want to, she must have enough money to keep her fashionably in San Francisco.  But she wanted excitement, and that she would have!  She wanted to go to balls, theatres, and entertainments, and she intended to!  Her voice grew quite high, and her dark cheek glowed with some new-found emotion.

Astounded as he was, Peter succumbed.  It was better that she should indulge her astounding caprice under his roof than elsewhere.  It would not do for the sister of an Atherly to provoke scandal.  He gave entertainments, picnics, and parties, and “Jinny” Atherly plunged into these mild festivities with the enthusiasm of a schoolgirl.  She not only could dance with feverish energy all night, but next day could mount a horse—­she was a fearless rider—­and lead the most accomplished horsemen.  She was a good shot, she walked with the untiring foot of a coyote, she threaded the woods with the instinct of a pioneer.  Peter regarded her with a singular mingling of astonishment and fear.  Surely she had not learned this at school!  These were not the teachings nor the sports of the good sisters!  He once dared to interrogate her regarding this change in her habits.  “I always felt like it,” she answered quickly, “but I kept it down.  I used sometimes to feel that I couldn’t stand it any longer, but must rush out and do something,” she said passionately; “but,” she went on with furtive eyes, and a sudden wild timidity like that of a fawn, “I was afraid!  I was afraid it was like mother!  It seemed to me to be her blood that was rising in me, and I kept it down,—­I didn’t want to be like her,—­and I prayed and struggled against it.  Did you,” she said, suddenly grasping his hand, “ever feel like that?”