She untied the ribbons of the top parcel, and disclosed a frock of fine white lace—­there was cloth of silver for a petticoat, and silver slippers.  She would have worn her pearls, and George and she would have danced together at the Harvest Ball at the Merriweathers.  It was an annual and very exclusive affair in the county.  It was not likely that the Watermans and their guests would be invited, but there would have been a welcome for Dalton as her friend—­her more than friend.

There was a white lace wrap with puffs of pink taffeta and knots of silver ribbon which went with the gown.  Becky with a sudden impulse put it on.  She stripped the cap from her head, and wound her bronze locks in a high knot.  She surveyed herself.

Well, she was Becky Bannister of Huntersfield—­and the mirror showed her beauty.  And Dalton had not known or cared.  He thought her poor; and had thrown her aside like an old glove!

Down-stairs the telephone rang.  Old Mandy, coming up to say that Mr. Randy was on the wire, stood in amazement at the sight of Becky in the rosy wrap with her hair peaked up to a topknot.

“Ain’ you in baid?” she asked, superfluously.

“No.  Who wants me, Mandy?”

“I tole you—­Mr. Randy.”

Becky deliberated.  “I’ll go down.  When I come up we’ll unpack all this, Mandy.”

Randy at the other end of the wire was asking Becky to go to a barbecue the next day.

“The boarders are giving it—­it is Mother’s birthday and they want to celebrate.  It is to be on Pavilion Hill.  They want you and the Judge——­”

“To-morrow?  Oh, I don’t know, Randy.”

“Why not?  Have you another engagement?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the matter?  Can’t you tear yourself away from your shining knight?”

Silence.

“Becky—­oh, I didn’t mean that.  I’m sorry—­Becky——­”

Her answer came faintly, “I’ll come.”

“What’s the matter with the wire?  I can’t hear you.”

There was nothing the matter with the wire.  The thing that was the matter was Becky’s voice.  She found it suddenly unmanageable.  “We’ll come,” she told him finally, and hung up the receiver.

She ascended the stairs as if she carried a burden on her back.  Mandy was on her knees before the hamper, untying the rosy packages.

“Is you goin’ to try ’em on, honey?” she asked.

Becky stood in the doorway, the lace wrap hanging from her shoulders and showing the delicate blue of the negligee beneath—­her face was like chalk but her eyes shone.  “Yes,” she said, “there’s a pink gingham I want to wear to the barbecue to-morrow.  There ought to be a hat to match.  Did the hats come, Mandy?”

“Calvin he say there’s another box, but he ain’ brought it up from the deepot.  He was ridin’ dat Jo-mule, and this yer basket was all he could ca’y.”

In the pink frock Becky looked like a lovely child.