To Hilary, as to Patience, it seemed as if a magic wand had been waved, transforming the old dull room into a place for a girl to live and dream in.  But for her, the name of the wand was Love.

There must be no more impatient longings, no fretful repinings, she told herself now.  She must not be slow to play her part in this new game that had been originated all for her.

The half-hour up, she slipped from the bed and began unbuttoning her blue-print frock.  Being company, it stood to reason she must dress for supper.  But first, she must find out what was in the upper drawer.

The first glimpse of the little shell box, told her that.  There were tears in Hilary’s gray eyes, as she stood slipping the gold beads slowly through her fingers.  How good everyone was to her; for the first time some understanding of the bright side even of sickness—­and she had not been really sick, only run-down—­and, yes, she had been cross and horrid, lots of times—­came to her.

“I’ll go over just as soon as I can and thank her,” the girl thought, clasping the beads about her neck, “and I’ll keep them always and always.”

A little later, she came down-stairs all in white, a spray of the pink and white wild roses in her belt, her soft, fair hair freshly brushed and braided.  She had been rather neglectful of her hair lately.

There was no one on the front piazza but her father, and he looked up from his book with a smile of pleasure.  “My dear, how well you are looking!  It is certainly good to see you at home again, and quite your old self.”

Hilary came to sit on the arm of his chair.  “It is good to be at home again.  I suppose you know all the wonderful surprises I found waiting me?”

“Supper’s ready,” Patience proclaimed from the doorway.  “Please come, because—­” she caught herself up, putting a hand into Hilary’s, “I’ll show you where to sit, Miss Shaw.”

Hilary laughed.  “How old are you, my dear?” she asked, in the tone frequently used by visiting ministers.

“I’m a good deal older than I’m treated generally,” Patience answered.  “Do you like Winton?”

“I am sure I shall like it very much.”  Hilary slipped into the chair Patience drew forward politely.  “The company side of the table—­sure enough,” she laughed.

“It isn’t proper to say things to yourself sort of low down in your voice,” Patience reproved her, then at a warning glance from her mother subsided into silence as the minister took his place.

For to-night, at least, Miranda had amply fulfilled Patience’s hopes, as to company suppers.  And she, too, played her part in the new game, calling Hilary “Miss,” and never by any chance intimating that she had seen her before.

“Did you go over to the manor to see Shirley?” Patience asked.

Hilary shook her head.  “I promised her Pauline and I would be over soon.  We may have Fanny some afternoon, mayn’t we, father?”