all the others sit and talk complacently of their silks and
satins, floating tulles and laces, she, with a pang, remembers that all
she has to wear is a plain white muslin. It is hard. No doubt she will
look pretty--perhaps prettier and fairer than most--in the despised
muslin; but as surely she will look poorly attired, and the thought is
not inspiring.

No one but a woman can know what a woman thinks on such a subject; and
although she faces the situation philosophically enough, and by no
means despises herself for the pangs of envy she endures when listening
to Maud Darley's account of the triumph in robes to be sent by Worth
for the Herst ball, she still shrinks from the cross-examination she
will surely have to undergo at the hands of Cecil Stafford as to her
costume for the coming event.

One day, a fortnight before the ball, Cecil does seize on her, and,
carrying her off to her own room and placing her in her favorite chair,
says, abruptly:

"What about your dress, Molly?"

"I don't know that there is anything to say about it," says Molly, who
is in low spirits. "The only thing I have is a new white muslin, and
that will scarcely astonish the natives."

"Muslin! Oh, Molly! Not but that it is pretty always,--I know nothing
more so,--but for a ball-dress--terribly _rococo_. I have set my
heart on seeing you resplendent; and if you are not more gorgeous than
Marcia I shall break down. Muslin won't do at all."

"But I'm afraid it must."

"What a pity it is I am so much shorter than you!" says Cecil,
regretfully. "Now, if I was taller we might make one of my dresses suit
you."

"Yes, it is a pity,--a dreadful pity," says Molly, mournfully. "I
should like to be really well dressed. Marcia, I suppose, will be in
satin, or something else equally desirable."

"No doubt she will deck herself out in Oriental splendor, if she
discovers you can't," says Cecil, angrily.

There is a pause,--a decided one. Cecil sits frowning and staring at
Molly, who has sunk into an attitude expressive of the deepest
dejection. The little ormolu clock, regardless of emotion, ticks on
undisturbed until three full minutes vanish into the past. Then Cecil,
as though suddenly inspired, says, eagerly:

"Molly, why not ask your grandfather to give you a dress?"

"Not for all the world! Nothing would induce me. If I never was to see
a ball I would not ask him for sixpence. How could you think it of me,
Cecil?"

"Why didn't I think