that the dinner-bells rang ere we thought of lunch; but still a weight lay on me like a crime on conscience.  But by the next dawning I judged ’t was best that I should gather courage and settle things as they were to be.  Margray’s grounds joined our own, and I snatched up the babe, a great white Scotch bairn, and went along with him in my arms under the dripping orchard-boughs, where still the soft glooms lingered in the early morn.  And just ere I reached the wicket, a heavy step on the garden-walk beyond made my heart plunge, and I came face to face with my mother.  My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, I did not dare glance up, yet I felt her eyes upon me as if she searched some spot fit for her fine lips, and presently her hand was on my head, and the kiss had fallen on my hair, and then she gathered me into her arms, and her tears rained down and anointed my face like chrism.  And I just let the wondering wean slip to the grass, and I threw my arms about her and cried, “Oh, mother, mother, forgive me, and love me just a little!” It was but a breathing; then I remembered the child at my feet, and raised him, and smiled back on Mrs. Strathsay, and went on with a lighter heart to set my chests and drawers straight.

The days slipped into weeks, and they were busy, one and all, ordering Effie’s wardrobe; for, however much I took the lead, she was the elder and was to be brought out.  My mother never meant to bring me out, I think,—­she could not endure the making of parade, and the hearing the Thomsons and Lindsays laugh at it all, when ’t was but for such a flecked face,—­she meant I should slip into life as I could.  We had had the seamstresses, and when they were gone sometimes Mrs. Strathsay came and sat among us with her work;—­she never pricked finger with fell or hem, but the heaviest task she took was the weaving of the white leaf-wreaths in and out the lace-web before her there,—­and as we stitched, we talked, and she lent a word how best an old breadth could be turned, another gown refitted,—­for we had to consider such things, with all our outside show of establishment.

Margray came running through the garden that afternoon, and up where we sat, and over her arm was fluttering no end of gay skirts and ribbons.

“I saved this pink muslin—­it’s real Indian, lascar lawn, fine as cobweb—­for you, Alice,” she said.  “It’s not right to leave it to the moths,—­but you’ll never need it now.  It shall be Effie’s, and she’ll look like a rose-bud in it,—­with her yellow locks floating.”

“Yes,” said I.

“You’ll not be wanting such bright things now, child; you’ll best wear grays, and white, and black.”

“Indeed, then, I sha’n’t,” I said.  “If I’m no longer lovely myself, I’ll be decked out in braw clothes, that I may please the eye one way or another.”

“No use, child,” sighed my mother ’twixt her teeth, and not meaning for me to hear.

“So would I, Ailie,” said Mary Strathsay, quickly.  “There’s much in fine fibres and soft shades that gives one the womanly idea.  You’re the best shape among us all, my light lissomeness, and your gowns shall fit it rarely.  Nay, Margray, let Alice have the pink.”