“But have you no commendation for the woman who is independent enough to rise above the vanities of fashion?” Susan asked with some warmth.

“Most certainly I have.  I admire the woman who rises above vanities of whatever nature.  By all means throw the vanities of dress overboard, but don’t let sense and taste go with them.  But I am making a lengthy call:  I had forgotten myself.  Excuse me.  Good-morning;” and Mr. Falconer went out, and left Susan standing in the parlor just opposite an oil-painting over the mantel.

She lifted her eyes to the picture.  A simple little landscape it was, where cows stood in a brook which wound in and out among drooping willows.  Susan always liked to look at this picture, because she knew it was well painted.  The cows had a look of quiet enjoyment in their shapely figures.  A coolness was painted in the brook and a soft wind in the willow-branches.  She stood there before it this morning thinking how sweet it would be to move some man’s soul as a fine painting might move it.  Then she sighed, and went to divide her month’s rent with her sister.

“Gertrude,” she said, “do I look very old-fashioned?”

“Of course you do,” said Gertrude.  “You look fully as old-fashioned as grandma does—­more old-fashioned than mother does.  I do wish, Susie, you would dress better.  You make me feel terribly sheepish sometimes.  You can afford to dress well.”

“I have decided to get a new dress,” said Susan.  “What shall it be? and how shall it be made?  Something for the street.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you ought to have,” Gertrude said with enthusiasm.  “A dark-blue merino, a shade lighter than a navy, with blue velvet bretelles.  You would look superb in it, Susie:  you’d be made over new.”

“I never looked superb in anything,” said Susan with a smile through which one saw a heartache.

“Because you never had pretty things to wear, Susie—­because you never dressed becomingly.”  The tears were actually in Gertrude’s eyes, so keen was her sympathy with any woman who didn’t wear pretty things.  “Mayn’t I go and select your dress this afternoon?  Please let me:  I know the exact shade you ought to have.”

Susan gave her consent, and away sailed Gertrude to the shops, brimming with interest.

Through the enterprising management of this exuberant lady the new blue dress soon arrived from the dressmaker’s, bearing at its throat a white favor in the shape of a good-sized bill.  But then the dress was handsome and stylish, and Susan when duly arrayed in it did indeed seem made over.

“Susie, you look really handsome,” Gertrude said when she had wound her sister’s abundant chestnut hair into a stylish coil, and had arranged with artistic touches the inevitable laces and ribbons.  “Just come to the glass and look at yourself.”

To the mirror went Susan—­poor Susan who had always thought herself plain—­and there, sure enough, was a handsome face looking into hers, growing momently handsomer with surprise and pleasure kindling in the eye and spreading over cheek and brow.