No one, judging by the appearance of the resolute little figure trudging across the lane, would have imagined that Ann’s besetting sin was a love of dress.  She was such a plain old-fashioned little body, with her short brown hair combed smoothly back behind her ears.  But the checked sunbonnet, the long-sleeved gingham apron, and the stout calfskin shoes were no index of Ann’s taste.  They were of her mother’s choosing, and Ann’s mother was not a woman whose decisions could be lightly set aside.

In a bureau drawer in the guest-chamber of the little cottage was a dress that Ann had been longing to put on for six months.  It was of dainty white organdy, made to wear over a slip of the palest green silk, with ribbons to match.  And carefully wrapped in a box, with many coverings of tissue paper, was a pair of beautiful pale green kid shoes.  Ann had worn them only once, and that was in the early spring, when she had gone to a cousin’s wedding in the city.  Many a Sunday morning since, she had wept bitter tears into that drawer, at not being allowed to wear the costume to church.

“Just see how beautiful they are, mother,” she would say tearfully, touching the beribboned dress with admiring fingers and caressing the shoes.  “By the time I have another chance to wear them in the city they will be too small for me, and I shall have to give them to Betty.  I don’t see why I can’t wear them out here.”

“Because they are not suitable, Ann,” her mother would answer.  “You would look ridiculous going through the fields and along the dusty roads in such finery, and among all these plainly attired country people you would appear overdressed.  I hope that my little daughter is too much of a lady in her tastes to ever want to call attention to herself in that way, especially at church.”

“But, mother,” the little girl would sob protestingly, and then Mrs. Fowler’s decided voice would silence her.

“Hush, Ann!  Close the drawer at once.  You cannot wear them.”  That would settle the matter for awhile, but the scene had been repeated several times during the summer.  Now it was next to the last day of October, and no suitable occasion had arrived for Ann to wear them.

As she stood scattering the corn to the chickens, a daring plan began to form itself in her busy brain.  The trees suggested it; the trees of the surrounding woodland, decked out in their royal autumn colouring of red and yellow, that the sunset was just now turning into a golden glory.

“Even the trees get to wear their best clothes sometimes,” she said to herself.  “They look like a lot of princesses ready for a ball.  Oh, that’s what they are,” she exclaimed aloud.  “They are all Cinderellas.  October is their fairy godmother who has changed their old every-day dresses into beautiful ball-gowns, for them to wear on Hallowe’en.  I don’t see why I couldn’t wear my best clothes too, to-morrow.”  Then she went on, as if she