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“But it is too late.”

“‘Tisn’t. It’s not more than half an hour since Uncle George and Aunt Bella went. I’ll have you ready in a twinkling.”

“But the fire–and the children!”

“I’ll stay here and look after both. I won’t burn the house down, and if the twins wake up I’ll give them–what is it you give them–soothing syrup? So go at once and get you ready, while I fly over for the dress. I’ll fix your hair up when I get back.”

Margaret was gone before Aunt Beatrice could speak again. Her niece’s excitement seized hold of her too. She flung the stockings into the basket and the basket into the closet.

“I will go–and I won’t do another bit of darning tonight. I hate it–I hate it–I hate it! Oh, how much good it does me to say it!”

When Margaret came flying up the stairs Aunt Beatrice was ready save for hair and dress. Margaret cast the gown on the bed, revealing all its beauty of jetted lace and soft yellow silk with a dextrous sweep of her arm. Aunt Beatrice gave a little cry of admiration.

“Isn’t it lovely?” demanded Margaret. “And I’ve brought you my opera cape and my fascinator and my black satin slippers with the cunningest gold buckles, and some sweet pale yellow roses that Uncle Ned gave me yesterday. Oh, Aunt Beatrice! What magnificent arms and shoulders you have! They’re like marble. Mine are so scrawny I’m just ashamed to have people know they belong to me.”

Margaret’s nimble fingers were keeping time with her tongue. Aunt Beatrice’s hair went up as if by magic into soft puffs and waves and twists, and a golden rose was dropped among the bronze masses. Then the lovely dress was put on and pinned and looped and pulled until it fell into its simple, classical lines around the tall, curving figure. Margaret stepped back and clapped her hands admiringly.

“Oh, Auntie, you’re beautiful! Now I’ll pop down for the cloak and fascinator. I left them hanging by the fire.”

When Margaret had gone Aunt Beatrice caught up the lamp and tiptoed shamefacedly across the hall to the icy-cold spare room. In the long mirror she saw herself reflected from top to toe–or was it herself! Could it be–that gracious woman with the sweet eyes and flushed cheeks, with rounded arms gleaming through their black laces and the cluster of roses nestling against the warm white flesh of the shoulder?

“I do look nice,” she said aloud, with a little curtsey to the radiant reflection. “It is all the dress, I know. I feel like a queen in it–no, like a girl again–and that’s better.”

Margaret went to Mrs. Cunningham’s door with her.

“How I wish I could go in and see the sensation you’ll make, Aunt Beatrice,” she whispered.

“You dear, silly child! It’s just the purple and fine linen,” laughed Aunt Beatrice. But she did not altogether think so, and she rang the doorbell unquailingly. In the hall Mrs. Cunningham herself came beamingly to greet her.

“My dear Beatrice! I’m so glad. Bella said you could not come because you had a headache.”

“My headache got quite better after they left, and so I thought I would get ready and come, even if it were rather late,” said Beatrice glibly, wondering if Sapphira had ever worn a black-and-yellow dress, and if so, might not her historic falsehood be traced to its influence?

When they came downstairs together, Beatrice, statuesque and erect in her trailing draperies, and Mrs. Cunningham secretly wondering where on earth Beatrice Hayden had got such a magnificent dress and what she had done to herself to make her look as she did–a man came through the hall. At the foot of the stairs they met. He put out his hand.

“Beatrice! It must be Beatrice! How little you have changed!”

Mrs. Cunningham was not particularly noted in Murraybridge for her tact, but she had a sudden visitation of the saving grace at that moment, and left the two alone.