“Of course.  It’s a convenient accomplishment.  You didn’t know that four and a half yards of Swiss muslin would make a whole frock, did you?  Well, it will—­under some conditions.”  And Sally proudly held up the work of her hands, a nearly finished product at which her friend, attired at the moment in some fifteen yards of silk, stared in amazement.

“Sally Lunn!  You didn’t—­you couldn’t!  It’s not skimpy in the least.  You must have pieced out with something else.  But where?”

“The remains of my old one, re-enforced underneath, and used where the least wear will come on it.  It’s not an exact match, but I don’t think it will show.”

“Show!  Not a bit.  But I thought putting old and new wash goods together wouldn’t do.”

“I’ve shrunk the new, and, as I told you, re-enforced the old with some very thin, cheap lawn.  I shall wash it myself—­with the ends of my fingers, and my eyes looking the other way.  Find the old parts!”

Thus challenged, Josephine brought a pair of very bright black eyes to bear upon the pretty frock, turning it over critically, and after some search discovered the resourceful trick which had made the whole lower half of the skirt and part of the sleeves out of the old muslin.

“You genius!” she cried.  “I wish I were half as clever as you.”  She regarded her friend with the genuine admiration and affection which had carried the comradeship of the two girls safely through the test of the Lanes’ altered fortunes.

“How good it is to have you back!” said Sally, returning the look.  “You haven’t half told me about your winter.”

“Yes—­but never mind that just now,” said Josephine.  “I’ve come to hear about you.  Jarvis met Max this morning, heard the news, and told it at luncheon.  I simply flew down to show you how glad I am, and to hear more.  Tell me, is it a beautiful old place, and shall you go there to live?  I suppose I’ve seen it, but I’ve forgotten.”

“It’s a forlorn old place, dreadfully run down, but I want to live in it.  The boys won’t hear of it—­as yet.  We’ve only been there once.  We’re going again Saturday—­you know that’s the only time they can all get away.”

“What fun.  Can’t I go, too?  There must be something nice about it, or you wouldn’t want to live there.”

“There’s a locked door in it,” said Sally, smiling, as her thoughts turned to the mystery.  She described the finding of the door to Josephine, who exclaimed: 

“I must be there to see it opened!  What do you suppose you’ll find?”

“Dust and empty shelves, Max says.  Blue-beard’s murdered wives, says Bob.  Alec guesses a lot of broken-backed chairs and a desk with the hinges off.  Uncle Timothy thinks it merely leads to the roof.  But the steps from the attic do that.”

“What do you think?”

“I think everything,” admitted Sally, “from antique mirrors and old clothes to empty flower pots and battered and rons.  I’m prepared for anything—­except the empty shelves.  Why should the door be locked so securely if there’s nothing behind it?”