rren.

"I was only fooling, dearie; it's all going to be lovely, and I'm
going into that conservatory just as valiantly as the Rough Riders
charged up old San Juan! Only, Marmee, don't ask me to wear
white--that would be _too_ absurd! Frankly, I'm susceptible to color.
You've heard about the little boy who whistled in the dark to keep his
courage up?" Mrs. Warren smiled through her tears. "Well, I'm going to
wear my red--red is cheerful, and not _too_ innocent, and--and
courageous--I mean," Nancy explained, hastily, as she caught her
mother's look of wonder. "It always requires _some_ courage for a girl
to say she will marry a man, even when the circumstances are as--as
happy as they are in this case. Didn't you feel just a little bit
queer when you told dad you'd marry him?"

"Why, yes, I suppose I did," said Mrs. Warren, half doubtfully.

"Well, then," said Nancy, logically, "you can understand just what I
mean. I've a scrap of lace"--reverting to the burning question--"that
I'm going to hunt up, that will freshen the red a lot, and some day,
Marmee"--she took her mother's face between her cool, slim hands, and
laughed with a fine assumption of gayety--"we'll have such closetfuls
of dainty, bewitching 'creations' that we'll quite forget we ever
envied Mother Eve because she didn't have to rack her brains about
what to wear."

Mrs. Warren laughed. Her indignation had vanished. Nancy had a winsome
way with her when she chose that was irresistible to the older woman.

"Now you go take a nice little nap, Marmee"--she kissed her mother
lightly on the forehead--"while the future Mrs. James Thornton ferrets
out the scrap of lace which is to be the _piece de resistance_ of
_Juliet's_ costume when she goes to meet her portly _Romeo!_" She
laughed merrily, and with a sweeping courtesy ushered her mother out
of the room.

As soon as the door had closed behind Mrs. Warren, Nancy, singing
lustily, yet with a certain nervousness, as if to drown all power of
thought, bustled about the room, peering into topsy-turvy bureau
drawers and ransacking inconsequent-looking boxes, with a
half-feverish energy, as though upon the unearthing of that particular
piece of lace depended her hopes of heaven.

It seemed to be an elusive commodity, that scrap of rose-point; for
twenty minutes' patient search failed utterly to bring it to the light
of day.

Suddenly, Nancy espied a big, important-looking black walnut box on
the floor of her