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“There, I have done it!” she said to herself, her little fingers trembling with agitation. “He must already exist in the encircling Good. He is mine. I am engaged to be married at this very moment!”

To lay this singular memorandum before her Maker appeared to Miss Philura little short of sacrilegious; but the thought of the mysterious Abundance of which the seeress had spoken, urging itself, as it were, upon her acceptance, encouraged her. She arose from her evening orisons with a glowing face. “I have asked,” she said aloud, “and I believe I shall have.”

* * * * *

Mademoiselle Fifine passed a very enjoyable morning with Miss Philura. To choose, to purchase, and above all to transform the ugly into the beautiful, filled the French woman’s breast with enthusiasm. Her glance, as it rested upon her companion’s face and figure, was no longer coldly critical, but cordially appreciative. “Ze madame,” she declared, showing her white teeth in a pleasant smile, “has very many advantage. Voila, ze hair–c’est admirable, as any one may perceive! Pardon, while for one little minute I arrange! Ah–mon dieu! Regard ze difference!”

The two were at this moment in a certain millinery shop conducted by a discreet and agreeable compatriot of Fifine’s. This individual now produced a modest hat of black, garnished with plumes, which, set lightly on the loosened bands of golden-brown hair, completed the effect “delicieusement!” declared the French women in chorus.

With a beating heart Miss Philura stared into the mirror at her changed reflection. “It is quite–quite true!” she said aloud. “It is all true.”

Fifine and the milliner exchanged delighted shrugs and grimaces. In truth, the small, erect figure, in its perfectly fitting gown, bore no resemblance to the plain, elderly Miss Philura of yesterday. As for the face beneath the nodding plumes, it was actually radiant–transfigured–with joy and hope.

Mrs. J. Mortimer Van Deuser regarded the apparition which greeted her at luncheon with open disapproval. This new Miss Philura, with the prettily flushed cheeks, the bright eyes, the fluff of waving hair, and–yes, actually a knot of fragrant violets at her breast, had given her an unpleasant shock of surprise. “I am sure I hope you can afford all this,” was her comment, with a deliberate adjustment of eyebrows and glasses calculated to add mordant point and emphasis to her words.

“Oh, yes,” replied Miss Philura tranquilly, but with heightened color; “I can afford whatever I like now.”

Mrs. Van Deuser stared hard at her guest. She found herself actually hesitating before Philura Rice. Then she drew her massive figure to its full height, and again bent the compelling light of her gold-rimmed glasses full upon the small person of her kinswoman. “What–er–I do not understand,” she began lamely. “Where did you obtain the money for all this!”

Miss Philura raised her eyebrows ever so little–somehow they seemed to suit the clear blue eyes admirably today.

“The money?” she repeated, in a tone of surprise. “Why, out of the bank, of course.”

Upon the fact that she had drawn out and expended in a single morning nearly the whole of the modest sum commonly made to supply her meager living for six months Miss Philura bestowed but a single thought. “In the all-encircling Good,” she said to herself serenely, “there is plenty of money for me; why, then, should I not spend this?”

CHAPTER TWO

The village of Innisfield was treated to a singular surprise on the Sunday morning following, when Miss Philura Rice, newly returned from her annual visit to Boston, walked down the aisle to her accustomed place in the singers’ seat. Whispered comment and surmise flew from pew to pew, sandwiched irreverently between hymn, prayer and sermon. Indeed, the last-mentioned portion of the service, being of unusual length and dullness, was utilized by the female members of the congregation in making a minute inventory of the amazing changes which had taken place in the familiar figure of their townswoman.