“Wear it, my dear?” exclaimed Cicely.  “Why, of course I would.  You may not have thought of it, but since you have told me that story, it seems to me that the fitness of things demands that you should wear that gown.  As to the fitness of the dress itself, I’ll help you about that.  I can cut, sew, and do all that sort of thing, and together we will make a lovely gown of it for you.  I do not think we ought to change the style and fashion of it, but we can make it smaller without making it anything but the delightful old-timey gown that it is.  And then let me tell you another thing, dear Miriam:  you must really put up your hair.  You will never be treated with proper respect by your cook until you do that.  Mother and I have been talking about this, and thought that perhaps we ought to mention it to you, because you would not be likely to think of it yourself, but we thought we had no right to be giving you advice, and so said nothing.  But now I have spoken of it, and how angry are you?”

“Not a bit,” answered Miriam; “and I shall put up my hair, if you will show me how to do it.”

So long as the Dranes admitted that they had no right to give her advice, Miriam was willing that they should give her as much as they pleased.

For several days Cicely and Miriam cut and stitched and fitted and took in and let out, and one morning Miriam came down to breakfast attired in the pink chintz gown, its skirt touching the floor, and with her long brown hair tastefully done up in a knot upon her head.

“What a fine young woman has my little sister grown into!” exclaimed Ralph.  “To look at you, Miriam, it seems as if years must have passed since yesterday.  That is the pink dress that Dora Bannister wore when she was here, isn’t it?”

This remark irritated Miriam a little; Ralph saw the irritation, and was sorry that he had made the remark.  It was surprising how easily Miriam was irritated by references to Dora.

“I lent it once,” said his sister, as she took her seat at the table, “but I shall not do it again.”

That day Mike was interviewed in regard to what might be called his foreign maintenance.  The ingenuous negro was amazed.  His Irish and his African temperaments struggled together for expression.

“Bless my soul, Miss Miriam,” he said; “nobody in this world ever brought me nuthin’ to eat, ‘cause they know’d I didn’t need it, an’ gittin’ the best of livin’ right here in your house, Miss Miriam, an’ if they had brought it I wouldn’t have took it an’ swallowed the family pride; an’ what’s more, the doctor’s cook didn’t bring that pie on purpose for me.  She just comed down here to ax me how to make real good corn-cakes, knowin’ that I was a fust-rate cook, an’ could make corn-cakes, an’ she wanted to know how to do it.  When I tole her jes’ how to do it,—­ash-cakes, griddle-cakes, batter-cake, every kin’ of cake,—­she was so mighty obligated that she took a little bit