was quite at liberty to attend to them at this early hour of the day—­her “gentleman” had not come in yet—­and she conducted them to her show-room over the shop with the complacent alacrity of a milliner confident that she is about to give supreme satisfaction.  And indeed Mrs. Stokes cried out with rapture, the instant the bonnet filled her eye, that it was “A sweet little bonnet—­blue crape and white marabouts!”

Bessie smiled most becomingly as it was tried on, and blushed at herself in the glass.  “But a shower of rain will spoil it,” she objected, nodding the downy white feathers that topped the brim.  She was proceeding philosophically to tie the glossy broad strings in a bow under her round chin when Miss Jocund stepped hastily to the rescue, and Mrs. Betts entered with a curtsey, and a blue silk slip on her arm.  “What next?” Bessie demanded of the waiting-woman in rosy consternation.

“I am afraid we must trouble you, Miss Fairfax, but not much, I hope,” insinuated Miss Jocund with a queer, deprecating humility.  “There is a good half hour to spare.  Since Eve put on a little cool foliage, female dress has developed so extensively that it is necessary to try some ladies on six times to avoid a misfit.  But your figure is perfectly proportioned, and I resolved, for once, to chance it on my knowledge of anatomy, supplemented by an embroidered dress from your wardrobe.  If you will be so kind:  a stitch here and a stitch there, and my delightful duty is accomplished.”

Miss Jocund’s speeches had always a touch of mockery, and Bessie, being in excellent spirits, laughed good-humoredly, but denied her request.  “No, no,” said she, “I will not be so kind.  Your lovely blue bonnet would be thrown away if I did not look pleasant under it, and how could I look pleasant after the painful ordeal of trying on?”

Mrs. Stokes, with raised eyebrows, was about to remonstrate, Mrs. Betts, with flushed dismay, was about to argue, when Miss Jocund interposed; she entered into the young lady’s sentiments:  “Miss Fairfax has spoken, and Miss Fairfax is right.  A pleasant look is the glory of a woman’s face, and without a pleasant look, if I were a single gentleman a woman might wear a coal-scuttle for me.”

At this crisis there occurred a scuffle and commotion on the stairs, and Bessie recognized a voice she had heard elsewhere—­a loud, ineffectual voice—­pleading, “Master Justus, Master Justus, you are not to go to your granny in the show-room;” and in Master Justus bounced—­lovely, delicious, in the whitest of frilly pinafores and most boisterous of naughty humors.

Bessie Fairfax stooped down and opened her arms with rapturous invitation.  “Come, oh, you bonnie boy!” and she caught him up, shook him, kissed him, tickled him, with an exuberant fun that he evidently shared, and frantically retaliated by pulling down her hair.