fastening had showed much through the slats of the settee.

Her mother unfastened, with fingers that were at once gentle and
nervous, the pearl buttons on the back of the dress. "Take your arms
out," said she to Maria. Maria cast a glance at the window. "There's
nobody out there but your father," said Mrs. Edgham, harshly, "take
your arms out."

Maria took her arms out of the fluffy mass and stood revealed in her
little, scantily trimmed underwaist, a small, childish figure, with
the utmost delicacy of articulation as to shoulder-blades and neck.
Maria was thin to the extreme, but her bones were so small that she
was charming even in her thinness. Her little, beautifully modelled
arms were as charming as a fairy's.

"Now slip off your skirt," ordered her mother, and Maria complied and
stood in her little white petticoat, with another glance of the
exaggerated modesty of little girlhood at the window.

"Now," said her mother, "you go and hang this up in the kitchen where
it is warm, on that nail on the outside door, and maybe some of the
creases will come out. I've heard they would. I hope so, for I've got
about all I want to do without ironing this dress all over."

Maria gazed at her mother with sudden compunction and anxious love.
After all, she loved her mother down to the depths of her childish
heart; it was only that long custom had so inured her to the loving
that she did not always realize the warmth of her heart because of
it. "Do you feel sick to-night mother?" she whispered.