Mrs. Wilson was not incapable of compunction, but she felt also the
demands of the family honor.

"Well, Lucindy," she began, soothingly, "now 'tain't any use, is it,
for us to say we ain't gettin' on in years? We be! You 're my age,
an'--Why, look at Claribel in there! What should you say, if you see me
settin' out to meetin' with red flowers on my bunnit? I should be
nothin' but a laughin'-stock!"

Lucindy laid the flowers back in their box, with as much tenderness as
if they held the living fragrance of a dream.

"Well!" she said, wistfully. Then she tried to smile.

"Here!" interposed Mrs. Wilson, not over-pleased with the part she felt
called upon to play, "you give me your bunnit. Don't I see your old
sheaf o'wheat in the box? Let me pin it on for you. There, now, don't
that look more suitable?"

By the time she had laid it on, in conventional flatness, and held it
up for inspection, every trace of rebellion had apparently been
banished from Lucindy's mind.

"Here," said the victim of social rigor, "you hand me the box, and I'll
set it away."

They had a cosey, old-fashioned chat, touching upon nothing in the
least revolutionary, and Mrs. Wilson was glad to think Lucindy had
forgotten all about the side-saddle. This last incident of the bonnet,
she reflected, showed how much real influence she had over Lucindy. She