Dinner was served unusually early that evening, and was an embarrassing ordeal from which Peggy was thankful to escape.

On her way upstairs, however, Rosalind called her back with an eager petition.

“Oh, Peggy! would you mind awwanging some flowers? A big hamper has just awwived from town, and the servants are all so dweadfully busy. I must get dwessed in time to help mother to weceive, but it wouldn’t matter if you were a few minutes late. Thanks so much! Awfully obliged.”

She gave her thanks before an assent had been spoken, and tripped smilingly away, while Peggy went back to the big room to find a great tray full of hothouse treasures waiting to be arranged, and no availing vases in which to place them. The flowers, however, were so beautiful, and the fronds of maidenhair so green and graceful, that the work was a pleasure; she enjoyed discovering unlikely places in which to group them, and lingered so long over her arrangements that the sudden striking of the clock sent her flying upstairs in a panic of consternation. Another quarter of an hour and the vicarage party would arrive, for they had been bidden a little in advance of the rest, so that Robert might help his mother and sister in receiving their guests. Peggy tore off dress and apron, and made all the speed she could, but she was still standing in dressing-jacket and frilled white petticoat, brushing out her long waves of hair when the door opened and Esther and Mellicent entered. They had begged to be shown to Miss Saville’s room, and came rustling in, smiling and beaming, with woollen caps over their heads, snow-shoes on their feet, and fleecy shawls swathed round and round their figures, and fastened with a hairpin on the left shoulder, in secure and elegant fashion. Peggy stood, brush in hand, staring at them and shaking with laughter.

“He! he! he! I hope you are warm enough! Esther looks like a sausage, and Mellicent looks like a dumpling. Come here, and I’ll unwind you. You look as if you could not move an inch, hand or foot.”

“It was mother,” Mellicent explained. “She was so afraid we would catch cold. Oh, Peggy, you are not half dressed. You will be late! Whatever have you been doing? Have you had a nice day? Did you enjoy it? What did you have for dinner?”

Peggy waved her brush towards the door in dramatic warning.

“Rosalind’s room!” she whispered. “Don’t yell, my love, unless you wish every word to be overheard. This is her dressing-room, which she lent to me for the occasion, so there’s only a door between us.—There, now, you are free. Oh, dear me, how you have squashed your sash! You really must remember to lift it up when you sit down. You had better stand with your back to the fire, to take out the creases.”

Mellicent’s face clouded for a moment, but brightened again as she caught sight of her reflection in the swing glass. Crumples or no crumples, there was no denying that blue was a becoming colour. The plump, rosy cheeks dimpled with satisfaction, and the flaxen head was twisted to and fro to survey herself in every possible position.

“Is my hair right at the back? How does the bow look? I haven’t burst, have I? I thought I heard something crack in the cab. Do you think I will do?”

“Put on your slippers, and I’ll tell you. Anyone would look a fright in evening dress and snow-shoes.”

Peggy’s answer was given with a severity which sent Mellicent waddling across the room to turn out the contents of the bag which lay on the couch, but the next moment came a squeal of consternation, and there she stood in the attitude of a tragedy queen, with staring eyes, parted lips, and two shabby black slippers grasped in either hand.

“M–m–m–my old ones!” she gasped in horror-stricken accents. “B–b–b–brought them by mistake!” It was some moments before her companions fully grasped the situation, for the new slippers had been black too, and of much the same make as those now exhibited. Mrs Asplin had had many yearnings over white shoes and stockings, all silk and satin, and tinkling diamond buckles like those which had been displayed in Peggy’s dress-box. Why should not her darlings have dainty possessions like other girls? It went to her heart to think what an improvement these two articles would make in the simple costumes; then she remembered her husband’s delicate health, his exhaustion at the end of the day, and the painful effort with which he nerved himself to fresh exertions, and felt a bigger pang at the thought of wasting money so hardly earned. As her custom was on such occasions, she put the whole matter before the girls, talking to them as friends, and asking their help in her decision.

“You see, darlings,” she said, “I want to do my very best for you, and if it would be a real disappointment not to have these things, I’ll manage it somehow, for once in a way. But it’s a question whether you would have another chance of wearing them, and it seems a great deal of money to spend for just one evening, when poor dear father—”

“Oh, mother, no, don’t think of it! Black ones will do perfectly well. What can it matter what sort of shoes and stockings we wear? It won’t make the least difference in our enjoyment,” said Esther the sensible; but Mellicent was by no means of this opinion.

“I don’t know about that! I love white legs!” she sighed dolefully. “All my life long it has been my ambition to have white legs. Silk ones with little bits of lace let in down the front, like Peggy’s. They’re so beautiful! It doesn’t seem a bit like a party to wear black stockings; only of course I know I must, for I’d hate to waste father’s money. When I grow up I shall marry a rich man, and have everything I want. It’s disgusting to be poor... Will they be nice black slippers, mother, with buckles on them?”

“Yes, dearie. Beauties! Great big buckles!” said Mrs Asplin lovingly; and a few days later a box had come down from London, and the slippers had been chosen out of a selection of “leading novelties”; worn with care and reverence the previous evening, “to take off the stiffness,” and then after all—oh, the awfulness of it!—had been replaced by an old pair, in the bustle of departure.

The three girls stared at one another in consternation. Here was a catastrophe to happen just at the last moment, when everyone was so happy and well satisfied! The dismay on the chubby face was so pitiful that neither of Mellicent’s companions could find it in her heart to speak a word of reproof. They rather set to work to propose different ways out of the difficulty.

“Get hold of Max, and coax him to go back for them!”

“He wouldn’t; it’s no use. It’s raining like anything, and it would take him an hour to go there and come back.”

“Ask Lady Darcy to send one of the servants—”

“No use, my dear. They are scampering up and down like mice, and haven’t a moment to spare from their own work.”

“See if Rosalind would lend me a pair!”

“Silly goose! Look at your foot. It is three times the size of hers. You will just have to wear them, I’m afraid. Give them to me, and let me see what can be done.” Peggy took the slippers in her hands and studied them critically. They were certainly not new, but then they were by no means old; just respectable, middle-aged creatures, slightly rubbed on the heel and white at the toes, but with many a day of good hard wear still before them.

“Oh, come,” she said reassuringly, “they are not so bad, Mellicent! With a little polish they would look quite presentable. I’ll tap at the door and ask Rosalind if she has some that she can lend us. She is sure to have it. There are about fifty thousand bottles on her table.”

Peggy crossed the room as she spoke, tapped on the panel, and received an immediate answer in a high complacent treble.

“Coming! Coming! I’m weady;” then the door flew open; a tiny pink silk shoe stepped daintily over the mat, and Rosalind stood before them in all the glory of a new Parisian dress. Three separate gasps of admiration greeted her appearance, and she stood smiling and dimpling while the girls took in the fascinating details—the satin frock of palest imaginable pink, the white chiffon over-dress which fell from shoulder to hem in graceful freedom, sprinkled over with exquisite rose—leaves—it was all wonderful—fantastic—as far removed from Peggy’s muslin as from the homely crepon of the vicar’s daughters.

“Rosalind! what a perfect angel you look!” gasped Mellicent, her own dilemma forgotten in her wholehearted admiration; but the next moment memory came back, and her expression changed to one of pitiful appeal. “But, oh, have you got any boot-polish? The most awful thing has happened. I’ve brought my old shoes by mistake! Look! I don’t know what on earth I shall do, if you can’t give me something to black the toes.” She held out the shoes as she spoke, and Rosalind gave a shrill scream of laughter.

“Oh! oh! Those things! How fwightfully funny! what a fwightful joke! You will look like Cinderwella, when she wan away, and the glass slippers changed back to her dweadful old clogs. It is too scweamingly funny, I do declare!”

“Oh, never mind what you declare! Can you lend us some boot-polish—that’s the question!” cried Peggy sharply. She knew Mellicent’s horror of ridicule, and felt indignant with the girl who could stand by, secure in her own beauty and elegance, and have no sympathy for the misfortune of a friend. “If you have a bott............