ight shoe and hold it in her left hand, or something of
that sort. No, that isn't necessary. I'll bet I could go into a crowd of
a thousand women and pick out the one who wrote that letter."

The scent of violet still haunted him, but, by the time he had posted
his mother's note, he had forgotten all about it and was thinking of
Rosemary.

[Sidenote: Planning for the Guest]

Madame, however, was busy with plans for her guest's comfort. She took
down her best hand-embroidered linen sheets, shaking out the lavender
that was laid between the folds, selected her finest towels and
dresser-covers, ransacked three or four trunks in the attic for an old
picture of Louise Lane, found a frame to fit it, laid out fresh
curtains, had the shining silver candlesticks cleaned again, and opened
wide every window of the long-unused guest-room to give it a night's
airing.

Downstairs, she searched through the preserve-closet for dainties to
tempt an unhappy woman's appetite, meanwhile rejoicing with housewifely
pride in her well-stocked shelves. That evening, while Alden read the
paper, she planned a feast for the next night, and mended, with
fairy-like stitches, the fichu of real lace that she usually wore with
her lavender silk gown.

"Is it a party?" queried Alden, without looking up from his paper.

"Yes. Isn't company a party?"

"That depends. You know three are said to be a crowd."

"Still inhospitable, dear?"

"Only mildly so. I contemplate the approaching evil with resignation, if
not content."

"You and I have lived alone so long that we've got ourselves into a rut.
Everyone we meet may give us something, and receive something from us
in return."

[Sidenote: Best Things for Strangers]

"I perceive," said Alden, irrelevantly, "that the Lady Mother is going
to be dressed in her best when the guest arrives."

A pale pink flush mantled the old lady's fair cheeks. At the moment she
looked like a faded rose that had somehow preserved its sweetness.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Why do we always do for strangers what we do not willingly do for our
own flesh and blood?" he queried, philosophically. "You love me better
than anything else in the world, yet you wouldn't put on that lavender
gown twice a year, just for me alone. The strange woman may feast her
eyes upon it the moment she enters the house. She'll eat from the best
china, sleep between embroidered sheets, and, I have no doubt, drink the
wine that Father put awa