it done," was all that she could
get out of her.

"But John will not go without you!" Elizabeth cried in dismay.

The girl was tempted to tell her of the gossip she had heard, but it
suddenly seemed small and not worth while. She had already told her that
Aunt Susan had her promise to come in time for dinner; it occurred to her
to tell her of Nathan's attitude toward them for their unfriendly neglect,
but that too seemed unnecessary and trivial since they were going. On that
point Elizabeth did not intend to give in an inch: she was going, even if
John _was_ cross about it.

"Yes, he will go without me, for I'll see that he does," Mrs. Hunter
assured her, and with that Elizabeth was content.

Taking the baby to her own room, she undressed and bathed him and then
arrayed him in the daintiest white dress she had for him, determined that
Aunt Susan should see him at his best. As she nursed him so that he would
drop off to sleep till they were ready to go, she looked long and
earnestly at the soft skin and dark lashes of his baby face and realized
as she had never done before the loneliness of the old couple whom they
were going to visit. The little Katie of that house had been taken from
them at about this age. A sob arose in Elizabeth's throat when she
considered how they had besought her for an opportunity to pour the
dammed-up stream of their love at the feet of this child, and how slighted
their efforts had been.

Jack was wide-eyed and would not sleep, and after losing much valuable
time his mother set him in the middle of the bed and began her own
preparations. As she looked about for something suitable to wear, she saw
a simple white percale with red dots scattered over it, which she had worn
the summer she had lived in Aunt Susan's house. So little had she gone out
and so free from personal vanity was she that it was still eligible to
best wear. Besides, it had associations that were pleasant.

"Why, I made it in Aunt Susan's own house," she said aloud.

She looked down at it wistfully; those had been happy days.

A sudden impulse made her drop her heavy hair from its coil high on her
head and, picking up her comb, divide it with deft movement. Brushing it
into shape, she braided it as of old, in two braids, and then fished with
rapturous fingers in her ribbon box for the bows she had always worn with
that dress. When the bows were tied she put the braids back with a
characteristic toss of the head and sto