ght at
him again so soon. I could fairly feel Aunt Adeline's eyes boring into
my back.

"It would take the hydra-headed monster of--may I bring my mother to
call on you and the--Mrs. Henderson?" he asked, and poured the wonder
smile all over me. Again I almost caught my breath.

"I do wish you would, Aunt Adeline is so fond of Mrs. Wade!" I said in a
positive flutter that I hope he didn't see; but I am afraid he did, for
he hesitated as if he wanted to say something to calm me, then bowed
mercifully and went on down the street. He didn't put on the hat he had
held in his hand all the while he stood by the hedge until he had looked
back and bowed again. Then I felt still more fluttered as I went into
the house, but I received the third cold plunge of the day when I
reached the front hall.

"Mary," said Aunt Adeline in a voice that sounded as if it had been
buried and never resurrected, "if you are going to continue in such an
unseemly course of conduct I hope you will remove your mourning, which
is an empty mockery and an insult to my own widowhood."

"Yes, Aunt Adeline, I'll go take it off this very minute," I heard
myself answer her airily, to my own astonishment. I might have known
that if I ever got one of those smiles it would go to my head! Without
another word I sailed into my room and closed the door softly.

Slowly I unbuttoned that black dress that symbolised the ending of six
years of the blackness, and the rosy dimpling thing in snowy lingerie
with tags of blue ribbon that stood in front of my mirror was as
new-born as any other hour-old similar bundle of linen and lace in
Hillsboro. Fortunately, an old white lawn dress could be pulled from the
top shelf of the cupboard in a hurry, and the Molly that came out of
that room was ready for life--and a lot of it.

And again, fortunately, Aunt Adeline had retired with a violent
headache, and Jane was carrying her in a hot water-bottle with a broad
smile on her face. Jane sees the world from the kitchen window and
understands everything. She had laid a large thick letter on the hall
table where I couldn't fail to see it.

I took possession of it and carried it to a bench in the garden that
backs up against the purple sprayed lilacs and is flanked by two rows of
tall purple and white iris that stand in line ready for a Virginia reel
with a delicate row of the poet's narcissus across the broad path. I
love my flowers. I love them swaying on their stems in the