too well bred, and too self-satisfied for any idea of comparison to occur to them.  They would eat his fruit-cake, or make him welcome to their corn-bread with the same hearty unconcern.  His wealth, and their own poverty troubled them equally little; they were abstract facts with which hospitality had nothing to do.  But in their way they were proud; having given their best without grudge or stint, they would expect his best in return, and the general was determined that they should have it.  The risk of offense lay in simplicity, not grandeur.

Mrs. Royall Garnett came over to Lanarth a day or so before the grand event, bearing her family in her train, to assist in the weighty matter of a suitable toilet for Pocahontas.  She was a tall, handsome woman, with a noble bearing, and great decision of character; and on most matters—­notably those pertaining to the sacred mysteries of the wardrobe, her word with her family was law.  Grace’s taste was admitted to be perfect.

After an exhaustive discussion of the subject, at which both Berke and Royall ignorantly and gratuitously assisted, and were flouted for their pains, it was irrevocably decided that Pocahontas should appear in pure white unrelieved by a single dash of color.

“She looks cheap and common in any thing but dead black, or pure white, at a party,” pronounced Grace with sisterly frankness, and of course that settled the matter, although Mrs. Mason did venture on the modest protest that it would look “bride-like and unusual.”

“I want her to look unusual,” declared Grace; “to make her so, is at present the object of my being.  I shall hesitate at nothing short of cutting off her nose to secure that desirable result.  To be admired, a woman must stand out distinctly from the throng; and I’ve set my heart on Princess’s being the belle of the ball.  Have you plenty of flowers, dear?  As flowers are to be your sole garniture, you must have a profusion.  I can’t tolerate skimpy, rubbishing bouquets.”

“None at all, Grace,” confessed Pocahontas, ruefully, “except a single calla.  I cut my last white rosebuds and camellias to send to Nina Byrd Marion the very day before I heard about the Shirley ball.  Isn’t it provoking?”

“Then somebody must get you some,” Grace responded promptly, pausing in her preparations, and regarding her sister with the air of an autocrat; “if the men are not lost to all sense of honor and decency, you’ll have plenty.  Of course you must have plenty.  If only they will have sufficient intellect to select white ones!  But they won’t.  I’d better instruct Roy and Berkeley at once.”

On the morning of the ball, Berkeley entered his mother’s room, where the three ladies sat in solemn conclave regarding with discontent a waiter full of colored flowers which a thoughtful neighbor had just sent over to Pocahontas.  He held in his hand a good-sized box which he deposited in his sister’s lap with the remark: