Margaret met her at the station, she, at a glance, discovered that the poor child had discovered how to do up her hair.  Some persons’ brains work in a great many directions and Martha Wallingford’s was one of them.  Somehow or other, she had contrived to dispose of her tightly frizzed fringe, and her very pretty hair swept upward from a forehead which was both intellectual and beautiful.  She was well dressed too.  She had drawn heavily upon her royalty revenue.  She had worked hard and spent a good deal during the short time since Margaret’s call, and her brain had served her body well.  She stepped across the station platform with an air.  She carried no provincial bag—­merely a dainty little affair mounted in gold which matched her gown—­and she had brought a small steamer trunk.

Margaret’s heart sank more and more, but she conducted her visitor to her little carriage and ordered the man to drive home, and when arrived there, showed Martha her room.  She had a faint hope that the room might intimidate this Western girl, but instead of intimidation there was exultation.  She looked about her very coolly, but afterward, upon her return to East Mordan, Illinois, she bragged a good deal about it.  The room was really very charming and rather costly.  The furniture was genuine First Empire; the walls, which were hung with paper covered with garlands of roses, were decorated with old engravings; there was a quantity of Dresden ware and there was a little tiled bathroom.  Over a couch in the bedroom lay a kimona of white silk embroidered with pink roses.  Afterward Martha made cruel fun of her Aunt’s pink crepe and made her buy a kimona.

“Shall I send up my maid to assist you in unpacking, Miss Wallingford?” inquired Margaret, inwardly wondering how the dinner would be managed if the offer were accepted.  To her relief, Martha gave her an offended stare.  “No, thank you, Mrs. Edes,” said she, “I never like servants, especially other peoples’, mussing up my things.”

When Margaret had gone, Martha looked about her, and her mouth was frankly wide open.  She had never seen such exquisite daintiness and it daunted her, although she would have died rather than admit it.  She thought of her own bedroom at home in East Mordan, Illinois, with its old black walnut chamber set and framed photographs and chromos, but she maintained a sort of defiant pride in it even to herself.  In Martha Wallingford’s character there was an element partaking of the nature of whalebone, yielding, but practically unbreakable, and sometimes wholly unyielding.  Martha proceeded to array herself for dinner.  She had not a doubt that it would be a grand affair.  She therefore did not hesitate about the white silk, which was a robe of such splendour that it might not have disgraced a court.  It showed a great deal of her thin, yet pretty girlish neck, and it had a very long train.  She had a gold fillet studded with diamonds for her hair—­that hair which was now dressed according to the very latest