“Of course I have been working,” said Miriam, “but while Dora Bannister was here, what we did was not like straightforward work; it all seemed to mean something that was not just plain housekeeping.  For one thing, the dough I intended to bake into bread was nearly all used up in making those rolls that Dora worked up into such pretty shapes; and now, if the new woman comes, I shall not have another chance to try my hand at making bread until she leaves us, for I am not going to do anything of the sort with a servant watching me.  And there are all those raspberries we picked this morning.  I am sure I do not know what to do with them, for there are ever so many more than we shall want to eat with cream.  What was it, Ralph, that you said you liked, made of raspberries?”

Ralph looked a little puzzled.

“I think,” he said, “it must have been something of the tart order.  What did I tell you?”

“You did not tell me anything,” said Miriam, “and I do not believe that tarts are ever made of raspberries.  Dora Bannister said she wanted to cook something for you that you told her you liked, but as you have forgotten what it was, I suppose it does not make much difference now.”

Ralph had said so many things to Dora that he could not remember what remark he had made about cooked raspberries; but it delighted him to think that, whatever it was, Dora had wished to make it for him.

After dinner Miriam went up to her room, where upon the bed lay Judith Pacewalk’s teaberry gown.  She took off her own school-girl dress, and put on the pink gown.  It was the first time she had ever worn the clothes of a woman.  When she had attired herself in the silken robe which had been so fatal to the fortunes and life of Judith Pacewalk, it had been slipped on in masquerade fashion, debased from its high position to a mere protection from spilt milk.  Miriam had thought of the purple silk when Miss Panney was telling her story, and had said to herself that if the stall in the cow-stable had been ever so much darker and dirtier, and if the milk stains had been more and bigger, the career of that robe would have ended all the more justly.

The teaberry gown was too long for Miriam, and too large in every way.  She knew that for herself; but hearing Ralph’s footsteps outside, she had a longing to know what he would say on the subject, so, holding up her skirt to keep herself from tripping, she ran downstairs and called him into the big hall.

“How do you like me in the teaberry gown?” she asked.

Without a thought of any figurative significance connected with the dress, Ralph only saw that it was as unsuitable to his sister as it had been well suited to Dora.

“You will have to grow a good deal bigger and older before you are able to fill that gown, my little one,” he said.

“That is not the way I do things,” said Miriam, severely.  “I shall make the gown fit me.”