o good a gown as this to wear to-night. The skirt is a
little frayed--oh! how vexing!" and Betty flew to her reticule for
needle and thread to set a timely stitch; "now that will not show when
the muslin slip goes over." Another anxious moment, and with a sigh of
relief Betty slipped on the short waist with its puffed sleeves and
essayed to pin the fichu daintily around her neck. Then she dived down
to the very depths of a chest of drawers, whence she produced a small
box, and out of this came a single string of pearls,--the pearls which
her mother had worn upon her wedding-day, and Pamela had pressed into
her hand at parting. Next, Betty with cautious steps, candle in hand,
approached the mirror, which graced the farther end of her tiny chamber,
and holding it at arm's length surveyed herself as far as she could see,
which was not below her dainty waist, as suited the dimensions of the
mirror aforesaid.

"I am too white," thought Betty, with a little frown, all unconscious of
her lovely coloring and exquisite red-gold hair, which, guiltless of
powder, was massed as usual on top of her head and clustered in wayward
little curls on the nape of her snowy neck and over her white forehead;
"but never mind,"--with childlike philosophy,--"my gown for the New Year
ball has both breast and shoulder knots of rose-color; I wish I dare
steal one for to-night! But perhaps Clarissa would not be pleased, so I
will descend as I am. I hear Peter clattering on the staircase; he is no
doubt superintending the servants' dance," and Betty extinguished her
candle and tripped lightly down past Clarissa's door.

From the sounds and lights she became aware that she was late, and had
lingered too long over her toilet, so she hesitated for a brief moment
as she reached the door of the drawing-room, where she could see
Clarissa and Grandma Effingham standing with a number of guests, both
dames and gentlemen. As she paused on the threshold a graceful, girlish
picture, a tall form emerged from the dim shades of the hall, and a hand
met hers.

"Mistress Betty, I salute you," said Geoffrey Yorke, bowing low, "and
may I also beg your acceptance of a bunch of clove pinks? They were
grown by my Dutch landlady in a box kept carefully in her kitchen
window, and I know not whether she or I have watched them the more
carefully, as I wished to be so fortunate as to have them bloom for you
to-night."

"For me?" said Betty, in a delighted whisper, turning