"What are you going to wear to-night in case you CAN go, Mary Bell?"
said Ellen Brewster in her lowest tones.

"Come upstairs and I'll show you," said Mary Bell Barber, glancing,
as they tiptoed out of the room, toward the kitchen's sunny big west
window, where the invalid mother lay in uneasy slumber.

"My new white looks grand," said Ellen on the stairs. "I made it
empire."

Mary Bell said nothing. She opened the door of her spacious bare
bedroom, where tree shadows lay like a pattern on the faded carpet,
and the sinking sun found worn places in the clean white curtains.
On the bed lay a little ruffled pink gown, a petticoat foamy with
lace, white stockings, and white slippers. Mary Bell caught up the
gown and held the shoulders against her own, regarding the older
girl meanwhile with innocent, exultant eyes. Ellen was impressed.

"Well, for pity's sake--if you haven't done wonders with that
dress!" she ejaculated admiringly. "What on earth did you do to it?"

"Well--first I thought it was too far gone," confessed Mary Bell,
laying it down tenderly, "and I wished I hadn't been in such a hurry
to get my new hat. But I ripped it all up and washed it, and I took
these little roses off my year-before-last hat, and got a new
pattern,--and I tell you I WORKED! Wait until you see it on! I just
finished pressing it this afternoon."

"Oh, say--I hope you can go now, after all this!" said Ellen,
earnestly.