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“Stephen Shaw!” repeated Miss Ponsonby faintly. “So Stephen Shaw is home again!”

“Why, I suppose you would know him long ago,” I said, remembering that Stephen Shaw’s youth must have been contemporaneous with Miss Ponsonby’s.

“Yes, I used to know him,” said Miss Ponsonby very slowly.

She did not say anything more, which I thought a little odd, for she was generally full of mild curiosity about all strangers and sojourners in Glenboro. Presently she got up and went away from her window. Deserted even by Miss Ponsonby, I went grumpily to bed.

Then Mrs. George Hubbard gave a big dance. Jerry and I were pleasantly excited. The Hubbards were the smartest of the Glenboro smart set and their entertainments were always quite brilliant affairs for a small country village like ours. This party was professedly given in honour of Stephen Shaw, who was to leave for the west again in a week’s time.

On the evening of the party Jerry and I went to our room to dress. And there, across at her window in the twilight, sat Miss Ponsonby, crying. I had never seen Miss Ponsonby cry before.

“What is the matter?” I called out softly and anxiously.

“Oh, nothing,” sobbed Miss Ponsonby, “only–only–I’m invited to the party tonight–Susan Hubbard is my cousin, you know–and I would like so much to go.”

“Then why don’t you?” said Jerry briskly.

“My father won’t let me,” said Miss Ponsonby, swallowing a sob as if she were a little girl of ten years old. Jerry had to dodge behind the curtain to hide a smile.

“It’s too bad,” I said sympathetically, but wondering a little why Miss Ponsonby seemed so worked up about it. I knew she had sometimes been invited out before and had not been allowed to go, but she had never cared apparently.

“Well, what is to be done?” I whispered to Jerry.

“Take Miss Ponsonby to the party with us, of course,” said Jerry, popping out from behind the curtain.

I didn’t ask her if she expected to fly through the air with Miss Ponsonby, although short of that I couldn’t see how the latter was to be got out of the house without her father knowing. The old gentleman had a den off the hall where he always sat in the evening and smoked fiercely, after having locked all the doors to keep the servants in. He was a delightful sort of person, that old Mr. Ponsonby.

Jerry poked her head as far as she could out of the window. “Miss Ponsonby, you are going to the dance,” she said in a cautious undertone, “so don’t cry any more or your eyes will be dreadfully red.”

“It is impossible,” said Miss Ponsonby resignedly.

“Nothing is impossible when I make up my mind,” said Jerry firmly. “You must get dressed, climb down that acacia tree, and join us in our yard. It will be pitch dark in a few minutes and your father will never know.”

I had a frantic vision of Miss Ponsonby scrambling down that acacia tree like an eloping damsel. But Jerry was in dead earnest, and really it was quite possible if Miss Ponsonby only thought so. I did not believe she would think so, but I was mistaken. Her thorough course in Libbey heroines and their marvellous escapades had quite prepared her to contemplate such an adventure calmly–in the abstract at least. But another obstacle presented itself.

“It’s impossible,” she said again, after her first flash hope. “I haven’t a fit dress to wear–I’ve nothing at all but my black cashmere and it is three years old.”

But the more hindrances in Jerry’s way when she sets out to accomplish something the more determined and enthusiastic she becomes. I listened to her with amazement.

“I have a dress I’ll lend you,” she said resolutely. “And I’ll go over and fix you up as soon as it’s a little darker. Go now and bathe your eyes and just trust to me.”

Miss Ponsonby’s long habit of obedience to whatever she was told stood her in good stead now. She obeyed Jerry without another word. Jerry seized me by the waist and waltzed me around the room in an ecstasy.