nt home with her jug of cream. Mrs. Staunton was still in the
larder making the raspberry tart. Effie went and watched her, as her
long thin fingers dabbled in the flour, manipulated the roller, spread
out the butter, and presently produced a light puff paste, which, as
Effie expressed it, looked almost as if you could blow it away.

"That's the best raspberry tart I have ever made," said Mrs. Staunton.
"Now we will put it in the oven."

CHAPTER VI.

The raspberry tart was put in the oven, and Mrs. Staunton went upstairs
to her own room.

She was a woman, who, as a rule, utterly disregarded dress. She gave but
little thought to her personal appearance. Like many other women of the
middle class, she had sunk since her marriage from the trim, pretty girl
to the somewhat slatternly matron.

Nothing could destroy the sweet comeliness of her face, however, but in
the struggle for life she and Fashion had fallen out--Fashion went in
one direction, and Mrs. Staunton strayed gently in another. She did not
mind whether her dress was cut according to the mode or not--she
scarcely looked at her faded but still pretty face. Now and then this
trait in her mother's character vexed Effie. Effie adored her mother,
she thought her the most beautiful of women, and anything that took from
her sweet charms annoyed her.

This evening, however, Mrs. Staunton made a careful and deliberate
toilet.

She removed her dowdy black dress, and, opening a drawer in her
wardrobe, took out a soft gray silk which lay folded between tissue
paper and sprigs of lavender. She put the dress on, and fastened soft
lace ruffles round her throat and at her wrists. The dress transformed
her. It toned with all her faded charms. She put a real lace cap over
her still thick and pretty hair, and, going down to the little parlor,
sat upright on one of the chairs near the window which looked into the
garden.

Effie came in presently, and started when she saw her mother.

"Why, mother," she said, "how sweet, how sweet you look!" She went over
and kissed her. Mrs. Staunton returned her embrace very quietly.

"It is for your father," she said. "He would like me to look nice--I am
sure he'd like us all to look nice to-night. Go upstairs, Effie, dear,
and put on your pretty blue muslin. And you, Agnes, I wish you to wear
your Sunday frock."

Agnes, who had bounded into the room at this moment, stopped short in
astonishment.

"Are we all going to a par