her crossly. "And what's more,
I hope nobody will! _That_ isn't what I want!"

"What do you want?" asked Charlotte curiously, detecting the underlying
earnestness of the words. But she received no response, and so, bent
upon an interesting topic, she harked back to Sheila's flight from the
party: "If nobody made love to you, why did you run away? Did your
conscience hurt you, Sheila?"

"Yes," admitted Sheila, "that was what made me come home. But I stayed
home because of something else."

"What?"

Sheila groped for the language of Mrs. Caldwell's lesson: "Because I--I
didn't want to be pretty in somebody else's clothes. I was happy for a
little while, but it didn't last. You see, I'd borrowed that--the
happiness--along with the frock. And of course I couldn't keep it. I
just want what belongs to me after this, Charlotte. It isn't fair to
take anything else--and it isn't any use either."

Charlotte stared at her with puzzled eyes. "You _are_ queer," she
remarked reflectively. "You _are_ queer, Sheila. Theodore Kent always
said so, and he was right. I wonder what he'll think of you when he
gets back from college."

But Sheila, who had blushed painfully at the suggestion of a lover who
did not exist, heard Ted's name without a flush or a tremor; and in
despair of any conversation about dress or beaux, the guest presently
took her departure.

A few days later Charlotte went back to her city school for further
"finishing," though she had already been sharpened and polished to a
bewildering edge and brilliancy. And left to herself, Sheila resumed
her unsophisticated, girlish life.

"We aren't going to have any young ladies at our house after all,
Peter," Mrs. Caldwell announced triumphantly over her teacup one
afternoon.

And Peter, lounging on the leafy veranda and appreciatively sipping
Mrs. Caldwell's fragrant amber brew, lifted a languidly interested
face: "How are you going to stop time for Sheila? Of course you've
done it for yourself, but not even you, fairy godmother, can do that
for other people."

"I don't intend to try. I don't want to try. Because--when my little
girl goes--it's time that will bring me some one better."

"The young lady, dear Mrs. Caldwell. The young lady--inevitably."

"No, Peter--the woman!" And Mrs. Caldwell's voice rang with pride and
confidence. "There's the making of one in Sheila, Peter--of a real
woman!"

"What's become of the poet you used to see in