“Hi!  Ann, what’s the matter?” called one of the boys as he noticed her mincing along at the tail-end of the procession instead of gallantly leading the charge as usual.  Then his glance wandered down past the checked sunbonnet and the long-sleeved gingham apron to the cause of her leisurely gait.

“My eyes!” he exclaimed with more vigour than politeness.  “What made you pull your shoes so soon for, Ann?  They ain’t ripe.  They’re green as gourds.”

“Mind your own business, Bud Bailey,” was the only answer he received, but from then on what had been her greatest pride became her deepest mortification.  For some unaccountable reason, after awhile her feet burned as if they were on fire, and before the afternoon was over the pain was almost unbearable.  Lottie found her sitting on a log behind a big tree, with her arms clasped around her knees, rocking back and forth, her eyes tightly closed and her teeth clenched.

“It must be the red pepper in those stockings that burns you so,” she said sympathetically.  “Come on up to the house and take them off.  Lucy will lend you another pair.”

But Ann sprang up, fiercely forbidding her to mention it to any one, and dashed into the games with a Spartan disregard of her pain.  It was the only way to keep from crying, and she played recklessly on at “prisoner’s base,” not stopping even when a pointed stick snagged one shoe and a sharp rock cut the other.

It was nearly dark when they went up to the house.  Bud Bailey swung his baskets over the fence and turned to help the girls, but after his unfortunate speech to Ann, she scorned his gallantries.  Scrambling to the top rail by herself at a little distance from his proffered hand, she poised an instant, and then sprang lightly down.  Unfortunately, she had not looked before she leaped.  Bud’s basket was in the way, and both feet sank into a great pulpy mass of wild grapes, that instantly squirted their streams of purple juice all over her light shoes.  They were splotched and dyed so deeply that no amount of rubbing could ever wipe away the ugly stains.  They were hopelessly ruined.

Alas for the Princess Emeralda, who that night might have learned her fate in the charm mirror!  It was a Hallowe’en she could never forget, since its unhappiness was both burned and dyed into her memory.  She sat through the tea, her feet like hot coals, too miserable to enjoy anything.  Afterwards, when Jennie’s guests began to arrive, she shrank into a corner, with her dress pulled down far as possible.

It seemed weeks before the carryall was driven up to the door, but at last she was jolting along the frozen road beside Lottie on the way home.  Out in the starlight, within the protecting privacy of her sunbonnet, she could let fall some of the tears she had been fighting back so long.  Neither of the children spoke until the carryall turned into the home lane.  Then Lottie cried out; “Oh, Ann!  There’s a light in your house.  Your mother must have come back sooner than she expected.  Yes, I can see Betty at the window watching for you.”