A very hard young lady to please, her father said, sometimes playfully, sometimes sternly.

Felicia was nineteen, with a tropical beauty somewhat like her cousin, Rachel Winslow, with warm, generous impulses just waking into Christian feeling, capable of all sorts of expression, a puzzle to her father, a source of irritation to her mother and with a great unsurveyed territory of thought and action in herself, of which she was more than dimly conscious.

There was that in Felicia that would easily endure any condition in life if only the liberty to act fully on her conscientious convictions were granted her.
"Here's a letter for you, Felicia," said Mr.Sterling, handing it to her.
Felicia sat down and instantly opened the letter, saying as she did so: "It's from Rachel." "Well, what's the latest news from Raymond ?" asked Mr.Sterling, taking his cigar out of his mouth and looking at Felicia with half-shut eyes, as if he were studying her.
"Rachel says Dr.Bruce has been staying in Raymond for two Sundays and has seemed very much interested in Mr.Maxwell's pledge in the First Church." "What does Rachel say about herself ?" asked Rose, who was lying on a couch almost buried under elegant cushions.
"She is still singing at the Rectangle.

Since the tent meetings closed she sings in an old hall until the new buildings which her friend, Virginia Page, is putting up are completed.
"I must write Rachel to come to Chicago and visit us.

She ought not to throw away her voice in that railroad town upon all those people who don't appreciate her." Mr.Sterling lighted a new cigar and Rose exclaimed: "Rachel is so queer.