Meantime, the rehearsals for Mother Superior’s Golden Jubilee proceeded steadily, and Marg’ret, Teresa, and Alanna could talk of nothing else.  The delightful irregularity of lessons, the enchanting confusion of rehearsals, the costumes, programme, and decorations were food for endless chatter.  Alanna, because Marg’ret was so genuinely fond of her, lived in the seventh heaven of bliss, trotting about with the bigger girls, joining in their plans, and running their errands.  The “grandchildren” were to have a play, entitled “By Nero’s Command,” in which both Teresa and Marg’ret sustained prominent parts, and even Alanna was allotted one line to speak.  It became an ordinary thing, in the Costello house, to hear the little girl earnestly repeating this line to herself at quiet moments, “The lions,—­oh, the lions!” Teresa and Marg’ret, in their turn, frequently rehearsed a heroic dialogue which began with the stately line, uttered by Marg’ret in the person of a Roman princess:  “My slave, why art thou always so happy at thy menial work?”

One day Mrs. Costello called the three girls to her sewing-room, where a brisk young woman was smoothing lengths of snowy lawn on the long table.

“These are your dresses, girls,” said the matron.  “Let Miss Curry get the len’ths and neck measures.  And look, here’s the embroidery I got.  Won’t that make up pretty?  The waists will be all insertion, pretty near.”

“Me, too?” said Marg’ret Hammond, catching a rapturous breath.

“You, too,” answered Mrs. Costello in her most matter-of-fact tone.  “You see, you three will be the very centre of the group, and it’ll look very nice, your all being dressed the same—­why, Marg’ret, dear!” she broke off suddenly.  For Marg’ret, standing beside her chair, had dropped her head on Mrs. Costello’s shoulder and was crying.

“I worried so about my dress,” said she, shakily, wiping her eyes on the soft sleeve of Mrs. Costello’s shirt-waist; when a great deal of patting, and much smothering from the arms of Teresa and Alanna had almost restored her equilibrium, “and Joe worried too!  I couldn’t write and bother my father.  And only this morning I was thinking that I might have to write and tell Sister Rose that I couldn’t be in the exhibition, after all!”

“Well, there, now, you silly girl!  You see how much good worrying does,” said Mrs. Costello, but her own eyes were wet.

“The worst of it was,” said Marg’ret, red-cheeked, but brave, “that I didn’t want any one to think my father wouldn’t give it to me.  For you know”—­the generous little explanation tugged at Mrs. Costello’s heart—­“you know he would if he could!”

“Well, of course he would!” assented that lady, giving the loyal little daughter a kiss before the delightful business of fitting and measuring began.  The new dresses promised to be the prettiest of their kind, and harmony and happiness reigned in the sewing-room.