birthday.

Madam Le Baron saw nothing singular in my appearance. She never
changed the fashion of her dress, being of the opinion, as she told
me afterward, that a gentlewoman's dress is her own affair, not her
mantua-maker's; and her gray and silver brocade went very well with
the green satin. We stood side by side for a moment, gazing into the
long, dim mirror; then she patted my shoulder and gave a little sigh.

"Your auburn hair looks well with the green," she said. "My hair was
dark, but otherwise--Shall we go down, my dear?"

I will not say much about the evening. It was painful, of course;
but Effie Gay had no mother, and much must be pardoned in such a case.
No doubt I made a quaint figure enough among the six or eight gay
girls, all dressed in the latest fashion; but the first moment was
the worst, and the first titter put a fire in my veins that kept me
warm all the evening. An occasional glance at Madam Le Baron's
placid face enabled me to preserve my sense of proportion, and I
remembered that two wise men, Solomon and my Uncle John, had
compared the laughter of fools to the crackling of thorns under a pot.
And--and there were some who did not laugh.

Pin it up, my dear! Your father has come, and will be wanting his tea.

I can tell you the rest of the story in a few words.

A year from that time Madam Le Baron died; and a few weeks after her
death, a parcel came for me from Hillton.