Oh Clarice, isn't it too bad that it's raining?" said Sue. "It hadn't begun when I started. It did look a little threatening, though. And I meant to take you such a lovely walk, Clarice. I don't suppose you want to go in the rain? I love to walk in the rain, it's such fun; but you are so delicate—"

"That's it," said Clarice, ignoring the wistful tone in Sue's voice. "I shouldn't dare to, Sue. There is consumption in my family, you know,"—she coughed slightly,—"and it always gives me bronchitis to go out in the rain. Besides, I have such a headache! Have some candy? I'll show you my new dresses, if you like. They just came this morning from New York—those muslins I told you about."

"Oh, that will be fun!" said Sue. But as she took off her tam-o'-shanter she gave a little sigh, and glanced out of the window. The rain was coming down merrily. It was the first they had had for several weeks, and sight, sound, and smell were alike delightful. It would be such fun to tramp about and splash in the puddles and get all sopping! Last summer, when the drought broke, she and Mary put on their bathing-dresses, and capered about on the lawn and played "deluge," and had a glorious time. But of course she was only twelve then, and now she was thirteen; and it made all the difference in the world, Clarice said. The water was coming in a perfect torrent from that spout! If you should hold your umbrella under it, it would go f-z-z-z-z-z! and fly "every which way"; that was centrifugal force, or something—

"Here they are," said Clarice.

Sue came back with a start, and became all eyes for the muslin dresses which were spread on the bed. They were too showy for a young girl, and the trimmings were cheap and tawdry; but the colors were fresh and gay, and Sue admired them heartily.

"Oh, Clarice, how lovely you will look in this one!" she cried. "Don't you want to try it on now, and let me see you in it?"

Clarice asked nothing better, and in a few minutes she was arrayed in the yellow muslin with blue cornflowers. But now came a difficulty: the gown would not meet in the back.

"Oh, what a shame!" said Sue. "Will you have to send it back, Clarice, or can you have it altered here? There is a very good dressmaker; she makes all our clothes,—Mary's and mine,—except what are made at home."

Clarice tittered.

"I'm afraid she wouldn't be quite my style," she said. "I wondered where your clothes were made, you poor child! But this is all right. I'll just take in my stays a little, that's all."

"Oh, don't, Clarice! Please don't! I am sure it will hurt you. Why, that would be tight lacing, and tight lacing does dreadful things to you. I learned about it at school. Dear Clarice, don't do it, please!"

"Little goose! who said anything about tight lacing? I'm only going to—there! Now look—I can put my whole hand in. You mustn't be so awfully countrified, Sue. You can't expect every one to go about in a bag, as you and Mary Hart do. I am two years older than you, my dear, and I haven't lived in a village all my life. It is likely that I know quite as much about such matters as you do."

"I—I beg your pardon, Clarice!" said Sue, the quick tears starting to her eyes. "Of course you know a great, great deal more than I do; I—I only thought—"

"There, do you see?" Clarice went on. "Now, that is real comfortable—perfectly comfortable; and it does fit alegant, don't it?"

"It certainly makes you look very slender," faltered Sue.

"Don't it?" repeated Clarice. "That's what my dressmaker always says."

She was turning slowly round and round before the glass, enjoying the effect. "There is nothing like a slender figure, she says; and I think so, too. Why, Sue, if you'll promise never to tell a soul, I'll tell you something. I used to be fat when I was your age—almost as fat as Mary Hart. Just think of it!"

"Oh, did you? But Mary isn't really fat, Clarice. She's only—well, rather square, you know, and chunky. That is the way she is made; she has always been like that."

"I call her fat!" said Clarice, decisively. "Of course, it's partly the way she dresses, with no waist at all, and the same size all the way down. You would be just as bad, Sue, if you weren't so slim. I don't see what possesses you to dress the way you do, making regular guys of yourselves. But I was going to tell you. My dressmaker—she's an alegant fitter, and a perfect lady—told me to eat pickled limes all I could, and put lots of vinegar on everything, and I would get thin. My! I should think I did. I used to eat six pickled limes every day in recess. I got so that I couldn't hardly eat anything but what it had vinegar in it. And I fell right away, in a few months, to what I am now."

"Oh! Oh, Clarice!" cried Sue, transfixed with horror. "How could you? Why, it must have made you ill; I know it must. Is that why you are so pale?"

"Partly that," said Clarice, complacently. "Partly, I used to eat slate-pencils. I haven't had hardly any appetite for common food this year. The worst is these headaches I have right along. But I don't care! I should hate to have staring red cheeks like Mary Hart. Your color is different; it's soft, and it comes and goes. But Mary Hart is dreadful beefy-looking."

"Clarice," said Sue, bravely, though she quivered with pain at the risk of offending her new friend, "please don't speak so of Mary. She is my oldest friend, you know, and I love her dearly. Of course I know you don't mean to say anything unkind, but—but I'd rather you didn't, please."

"Why, I'm not saying anything against her character!" said Clarice; and any one save Sue might have detected a spiteful ring in her voice. "I won't say a word about her if you'd rather not, Sue, but if I do speak, I must say what I think. She's just as jealous of me as she can be, and she tries to make trouble between us—any one can see that; and I don't care for her one bit, so there!"

"Oh, Clarice, don't say that! I thought we were all going to be friends together, and love one another, and— But you don't really know Mary yet. She is a dear; really and truly she is."

Clarice tossed her head significantly. "Oh, I don't want to make mischief!" she said. "Of course it doesn't matter to me, my dear. Of course I am only a stranger, Sue, and I can't expect you to care for me half as much as you do for Mary Hart. Of course I am nobody beside her."

"Clarice, Clarice, how can you? Don't talk so. It kills me to have you talk so! when you know how I love you, how I would do anything in the wide world for you, my dear, lovely Clarice!"

Clarice pouted for some time, but finally submitted to be embraced and wept over, and presently became gracious once more, and said that all should be forgiven (she did not explain what there was to forgive), and only stipulated that they should not talk any more about Mary Hart. Then she changed the subject to the more congenial one of clothes, and became eloquent over some of the triumphs of her dressmaker. Finally, in a fit of generosity, she offered to let Sue try on the other muslin dress. Sue was enchanted. "And then we can play something!" she cried. "Oh, there are all kinds of things we can play in these, Clarice."

"I guess not!" said Clarice. "Play in my new dresses, and get them all tumbled? Sue Penrose, you are too childish. I never saw anything like the way you keep wanting to play all the time. I should think you were ten, instead of thirteen."

Much abashed, Sue begged again for forgiveness. She did not see so very much fun in just putting on somebody else's dress and then taking it off again, but she submitted meekly when Clarice slipped it over her head. But the same difficulty arose again: the dress would not come anywhere near meeting round Sue's free, natural figure.

"Here," said Clarice; "wait a minute, Sue. I've got another pair of stays. We'll fix it in a moment."

Sue protested, but was overruled. Clarice was determined, she said, to see how her little friend would look if she were properly dressed for once. In a few moments she was fastened into the blue muslin, and Clarice was telling her that she looked too perfectly sweet for anything.

"Now that is the way for you to dress, Sue Penrose. If I were you I should insist upon my mother's getting me a pair of stays to-morrow. Why, you look like a different girl. Why, you have an alegant figure—perfectly alegant!"

But poor Sue was in sore discomfort, and no amount of "alegance" could make her at ease. She could hardly breathe; she felt girded by a ring of iron. Oh, it was impossible; it was unbearable!

"I never, never could, Clarice!" she protested. "Unhook it for me; please do! Yes, it is very pretty, but I cannot wear it another moment."

She persisted, in spite of Clarice's laughing and calling her a little countrified goose, and was thankful to find herself free once more, and back in her own good belted frock.

"Oh, Clarice," she said, "if you only knew how comfortable this was, you would have your dresses made so; I know you would."

"The idea!" said Clarice. "I guess not, Sue. Have some more candy? My, how my head aches!"

"It is this close room," said Sue, eagerly. "Clarice, dear, you are looking dreadfully pale. See, it has stopped raining now. Do let us come out; I know the fresh air will do you good."

But Clarice shook her head, and said that walking always made her head worse, and she should get her death of cold, besides.

"Then lie down, and let me read to you. Why, I forgot; I have 'Rob Roy' in my pocket; I wondered what made it so heavy. I remember, now, I did think it might possibly rain, so I brought 'Rob' in case. There, dear, lie down and let me tuck you up. Oh, Clarice, you do look so lovely lying down! I always think of you when I want to think of the Sleeping Beauty. There, now; shut your eyes and rest, while I read."

Clarice detested "Rob Roy," but her head really did ache,—she had been eating candy all the afternoon and most of the morning,—and there was nothing else to do. She lay back and closed her eyes. They were dreadfully stupid people in this book, and she could hardly understand a word of the "Scotch stuff" they talked. She wished she had brought "Wilful Pansy, the Bride of an Hour," or some other "alegant" paper novel. And thinking these thoughts, Clarice presently fell asleep, which was perhaps the best thing she could do.

Sue read on and on, full of glory and rejoicing. Di Vernon was one of her favorite heroines, and she fairly lived in the story while she was reading it. She was in the middle of one of Di's impassioned speeches when a sound fell on her ear, slight but unmistakable. She looked up, her eyes like stars, the proud, ringing words still on her lips. Clarice was asleep, her head thrown back, her mouth open, peacefully snoring. Another snore, and another! Sue closed the book softly. It was a pity that Clarice had lost that particular chapter, it was so splendid; but she was tired, poor darling, and her head ached. It was the best thing, of course, that she should have fallen asleep. Sue would watch her sleep, and keep all evil things away. It was not clear what evil things could come into the quiet room of the respectable family hotel, but whatever they might be, Sue was ready for them.

Sue's ideas of hotel life had become considerably modified since she had had some actual experience of it. Instead of being one round of excitement, as she had fancied, she was obliged to confess that it was often very dull. The Binns House was a quiet house, frequented mostly by "runners," who came and went, and with a small number of permanent boarders—old couples who were tired of housekeeping, or ancient single gentlemen. The frescoes and mirrors were there, but the latter reflected only staid middle-aged faces, or else those of bearded men who carried large handbags, and wore heavy gold watch-chains, and smelt of strong tobacco and cheap perfumery. Even the table, with its array of little covered dishes that had once promised all the delights of fairy banquets, proved disappointing. To lift a shining cover which ought to conceal something wonderful with a French name, and to find squash—this was trying; and it had happened several times. Also, there was a great deal of mincemeat, and it did not compare with Katy's. And the bearded men gobbled, and pulled things about, and talked noisily. Altogether, it was as different as could well be imagined from Sue's golden dream. And it was simply impossible to use the soap they had, it smelt so horribly.

Hark! was that a foot on the stairs? Suppose something were really going to happen now, while Clarice was asleep! Suppose she should hear voices, and the door should open softly, softly, and a villainous face look in—a bearded face, not fat and good-natured looking like those people's at dinner, but a haggard face with hollow, burning eyes and a savage scowl. Some robber had heard of Clarice's jewelry and her father's wealth, and had come all the way from New York (there were no robbers in Hilton) to rob, perhaps to murder her. Ah! but Sue would fling herself before the unconscious sleeper, and cry: "Back, villain, or I slay thee with my hands!" He might go then; but if he didn't, she would throw the lamp at him. She and Mary had decided long ago that that was the best thing to do to a robber when you had no weapons, because the oil and glass together would be sure to frighten him. And—and—oh! what was that?

This time it was no fancy. A man's voice was heard in the hall below; a man's foot came heavily up the stairs, and passed into the next room. A hand was laid on the latch.

"Clarissy, are you here?" asked the voice.

Sue sprang to her feet. It was Mr. Packard. What should she do? Mr. Packard was no robber, but Sue did not like him, and it seemed quite out of the question that he should find her here, with Clarice asleep. Seizing her tam and her jacket, and slipping "Rob Roy" into her pocket, she opened the window softly, and stepped out on the balcony which formed the roof of the hotel porch. She might have gone out of the other door, but the window was nearer; besides, it was much more exciting, and he might have seen her in the passage. Sue closed the window behind her, with a last loving glance at Clarice, who snored quietly on; and just as Mr. Packard entered the room she climbed over the balustrade and disappeared from sight.

"What upon earth is that?" asked Mrs. Binns, looking out of the window of the office, which was on the ground floor. "Somebody shinnin' down the door-post!—a boy, is it? Do look, Mr. Binns. I ain't got my glasses."

Mr. Binns looked.

"Well, I should say!" he remarked, with a slow chuckle. "It's Mis' Penrose's little gal. Well, she is a young 'un, to be sure! Be'n up to see the Packard gal, I s'pose. Now, you'd think she'd find the door easier; most folks would. But it wouldn't be Sue Penrose to come out the door while the' was a window handy by, and a post."

"Sue Penrose is gettin' too big to go shinnin' round the street that way," said Mrs. Binns. "I don't care for that Packard gal myself; she's terrible forthputtin', and triflin' and greedy, besides; but you wouldn't see her shinnin' down door-posts, anyway."

"Humph!" said Mr. Binns. "She don't know enough!"