“Now I shall look stylish,” said Kathleen, and she slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand.

“My wedding finger too, bedad!” she said.

When the contents of the trunk had been finally explored, Kathleen began to sort her finery.  Mrs. Tennant gave advice.

“Some of these things are a little too fine for everyday use,” she said.  “But some of these blouses are very suitable, and so are these white and gray and pink shirts.  And this blue bodice is quite nice for the evening, and so is the skirt belonging to it; but this and this and this—­I wouldn’t wear these until I went home if I were you, my love.”

Kathleen glanced at her.  A slight frown came between her brows.

“Don’t you see,” she said impatiently, “that I want to give away some of these things?  Do you see this dozen of blouses, all exactly alike, in this box?  These are for the secret society.”

“The what, Kathleen?”

“Oh, you musn’t tell—­it is the most profound secret—­but I have joined one.  Being an Irish girl, it is quite natural.  I sent a line to Aunt Katie to get a dozen of the very prettiest blouses she could.  Of course there are a lot more members, but our Cabinet has risen to something like a dozen, so I thought I’d have them handy.  Aren’t they just sweet?”

As she spoke she took out of the box the palest blue cashmere blouse, most exquisitely trimmed with blue embroidery flecked with pink silk.  The blouse had real lace round the neck and cuffs, and must have cost a great deal of money.

“Don’t you think Alice would look very nice in one of these?” said Kathleen, gazing with a very earnest face at Mrs. Tennant.

“Pink is more Alice’s color.  She is too pale for blue,” was Mrs. Tennant’s reply.

“Well, then, look here.  Isn’t this a perfect duck?  See for yourself.  It’s a sort of cross between a coral and a rose—­oh, so exquisite!  And see how it is made, with all these teeny tucks and the embroidery let in between.  And the sleeves—­aren’t they just illegant entirely?  Don’t you think we might make her wear it?”

“I am sorry, Kathleen, but you are not getting on very well with Alice.  I wish it were different.  Could you not do something to propitiate her?”

“Wisha, then, darling!” said Kathleen, pausing a moment to consider; “that’s just what I can’t do.  Alice’s ways are not my ways, and if I copied her it’s kilt I’d be entirely.  She never likes to see a smile on my face, and she can’t abide to watch me if I dance a step, and she wouldn’t take a joke out of me if it was to save her life.  To please Alice I’d have to be the primmest of the prim, and always stooping over my horrid lessons, and the end of it there’d be no more of poor Kathleen O’Hara—–­ it’s dead and in her grave she’d be, the creature.  Indeed, I’m glad I’m not made on Alice’s pattern, even if she is your daughter.  I can’t aspire to anything so fine and high up even for your sake, darling, and you are one of the sweetest women on God’s earth.  I couldn’t do it—­not by no means.”