Dunham slept very little that night. His soul was hovering between joy and
anxiety. Almost he was inclined to find some way to send her word about
the man he had seen lingering about the place, and yet perhaps it was
foolish. He had doubtless been to call on the cook, and there might be no
connection whatever between what Dunham had heard and seen and the lonely
girl.

Next day, with careful hands, the girl made herself neat and trim with the
few materials she had at hand. Her own fine garments that had lain
carefully wrapped and hidden ever since she had gone into service were
brought forth, and the coarse ones with which she had provided herself
against suspicion were laid aside. If any one came into her room while she
was gone, he would find no fine French embroidery to tell tales. Also, she
wished to feel as much like herself as possible, and she never could feel
quite that in her cheap outfit. True, she had no finer outer garments
than a cheap black flannel skirt and coat which she had bought with the
first money she could spare, but they were warm, and answered for what she
had needed. She had not bought a hat, and had nothing now to wear upon her
head but the black felt that belonged to the man she was going to meet.
She looked at herself pityingly in the tiny mirror, and wondered if the
young man would understand and forgive? It was all she had, any way, and
there would be no time to go to the store and buy another before the
appointed hour, for the family had brought unexpected company to a late
lunch and kept her far beyond her hour for going out.

She looked down dubiously at her shabby shoes, their delicate kid now
cracked and worn. Her hands were covered by a pair of cheap black silk
gloves. It was the first time that she had noticed these things so keenly,