Miss Lucinda was aghast at this irreverence but her halting protests had no effect on the torrent of Floss’s eloquence.

“I am going to take you to New York,” the girl declared “and I am going to give you the time of your life!  Dad’s got to put us up in style—­a room and a bath apiece and maybe a sitting room.  He likes me to splurge around a bit, says he’d hate to have a daughter that acted like she wasn’t used to money.”

Miss Lucinda glanced apprehensively at the door and then back at the sparkling face before her.

“I can’t go,” she insisted miserably, trying to free her hand from Floss’s plump grasp.  “My brother is expecting me and Miss Hill—­”

“Oh, bother Miss Joe Hill!  You don’t have to tell her anything about it!  You can pretend you are going to your brother’s and meet me some place on the road instead.”

Miss Lucinda looked horrified, but she listened.  A material kept plastic by years of manipulation does not harden to a new hand.  Her objections to Floss’s plan grew fainter and fainter.

“Think of the theaters,” went on the temptress, putting an arm around her neck, and ignoring the fact that caresses embarrassed Miss Lucinda almost to the point of tears; “think of it!  A new show every night, and operas and pictures.  There will be three Shakspere plays that week, ‘Merchant of Venice,’ ‘Twelfth Night,’ and ‘Hamlet.’”

Miss Lucinda’s heart fluttered in her bosom.  Although she had spent a great part of her life interpreting the Bard of Avon, she had never seen one of his plays produced.  In her secret soul she believed that her own rendition of “The quality of mercy,” was not to be excelled.

“I—­I haven’t any clothes,” she urged feebly, putting up her last defense.

“I have,” declared Floss in triumph—­“two trunks full, and we are almost the same size.  It’s just for a week, Miss Lucy; won’t you come?”

Miss Lucinda, sitting rigid, felt a warm cheek pressed against her own, and a stray curl touched her lips.  She sat for a moment with her eyes closed.  It was more than disconcerting to be so close to youth and joy and life; it was infectious.  The blood surged suddenly through her veins, and an exultation seized her.

“I’m going to do it,” she cried recklessly; “I never had a real good time in my life.”

Floss threw her arms about her and waltzed her across the room, but a step in the hall brought them to a halt.

“It’s Miss Joe Hill,” whispered Floss, with trepidation; “I am going out the way I came.  Don’t you forget; you have promised.”

When Miss Joe Hill entered, she smiled complacently at finding Miss Lucinda in the straight-back chair, absorbed in the second volume of the “Power Through Poise.”

At the Union Depot in Chicago, two weeks later, a small, nervous lady fluttered uncertainly from one door to another.  She wore a short, brown coat suit of classic severity, and a felt hat which was fastened under her smoothly braided hair by a narrow elastic band.