Half a dozen feminine tongues babbled cheerfully. For once the Deacon’s chilly parlor, with its slippery, horse-hair furniture, its stiff-featured portraits, and its big, black square piano, had lost a little of its funereal aspect, and a great deal of its oppressive neatness. Over the chairs, over the Brussels carpet, over the bow-legged table were scattered pieces of bright sateen, blue, red, orange and black, scraps of lace and gold tinsel, spangles and feathers. A coal fire glowed amiably in the grate, adding a deeper color to six blooming faces, and flashing on the bright needles that were so industriously plied. Outside, the first heavy snow of the winter was falling, in big, lazy flakes, which had already covered streets and roofs, and weighted the twigs and branches of the trees.

“Well, I’ve got every one of my Christmas presents ready,” remarked one young lady with a comfortable sigh of relief. “I start making them in June, but somehow I never get done until the last minute.”

“I just never try to make mine,” said another, “I take a day, and buy all of them in the city, when I go to visit Cousin Mary. It saves time and trouble, and I think it’s really more economical.”

“Oh, but then they don’t have the personal touch,” said a third, a tall, thin anÆmic-looking girl, with large, soulful eyes, and a tiny mouth. “And that is what counts. It’s what makes Christmas presents mean something. I always say that I never think of the gift, but of the thought of the giver.”

“But you make such clever things, Amelia,” said the one who bought her Christmas presents, feeling ashamed of her lack of sentiment.

“Very simple things, Dolly,” said Amelia, rinsing off her watercolor brush, and then dabbing it in a square of holly-red paint. “But I think that just a little card, with a tasteful design, and an appropriate verse is a very suitable way of expressing the spirit of Christmas.”

“And quite right, my dear,” boomed in Mrs. Deacon, appearing in the doorway. “But then you have such a charming gift of poesy. Not all of us are blessed with your magniloquence.” She lifted one of Amelia’s cards, and inspected it, through a pair of lorgnettes, which she held about six inches from her eyes, spreading out her little finger. “How charming! How effete with taste! Lily, my dear, you too should try to emulate Amelia’s Christmastide mementos. You are not entirely devoid of poetic genius. Why, I have many little emblems of your youthful flights of fancy—where is that album, my dear?”

“Oh, mamma!” cried Lily, blushing crimson. “Those silly poems of mine!”

“Indeed they are not silly,” said Mrs. Deacon, rummaging in the drawer of the table. “No, the album is not here. Lily, my dear, when will you remember that everything has its proper place? Now, I did want to read Amelia that delightful little Bandeau of yours on the Pine-Tree. She would be interested, I’m sure. And the Album is not here. Perhaps though, I put it away myself.”

“Oh, mamma, don’t get it now,” begged Lily, overcome with embarrassment, adding, desperately, “Do look at the lovely thing Elise is making.”

Mrs. Deacon, huge and majestic in her rustling black silk, turned her lorgnette on Elise’s exquisite embroidery.

“Charming. Absolutely charming. Do not rise, my dear. Well, I see that you are all happily occupied. What are these gay colors?” she asked presently, indicating the pieces of sateen.

“Oh, I brought some things that I thought might do for costumes, Mrs. Deacon,” said Annie Lee Webster. “For our party you know, on New Year’s Eve.”

“Ah! A Masquerade? How charming.”

“What are you going as, Amelia?” asked the fourth girl, the lively, apple-cheeked Dolly Webster. The poetess looked up dreamily.

“As Sappho,” she replied. Mrs. Deacon looked astonished, and interested.

“Sappho, my dear? How will you do that? Sappho was a race-horse!”

There was an irrepressible chuckle from the window embrasure, where, concealed by the long, dark-red curtains, Jane was curled, with a book, and a half-sucked orange.

Mrs. Deacon turned swiftly, her lorgnette levelled on the younger Miss Lambert like a microscope.

“Ah, Jane!” she observed a little coldly. Jane stood up respectfully, concealing her vulgar orange under her pinafore. “What are you laughing at, my dear?” asked Mrs. Deacon suspiciously.

“I thought it would be funny for Amelia to go as a race-horse,” replied Jane, simply, quite at her ease under Mrs. Deacon’s prolonged stare. Amelia, who took herself very seriously, and hated to appear in a ridiculous light even for a moment, said rather indignantly,

“A race-horse! Sappho was a poetess.”

“Ah, of course!” said Mrs. Deacon hastily, “that will be charming. And so well chosen. How will you signify yourself?”

“I am going to wear a simple Grecian robe of white muslin, with laurel leaves in my hair. And I shall carry a lyre,” replied Amelia. “I thought I would let my hair hang loose.”

“Ravishing! Simply ravishing!” cried Mrs. Deacon in perfect raptures. “So simple. And after all, is there anything like simplicity?”

“How will you get a lyre?” asked the practical Annie Lee.

“I shall try to make one out of card-board and gold paper.”

“Or you could borrow old Mr. Poindexter’s banjo,” suggested Jane, gravely. “That would really be better, because you could twang on it.”

Amelia did not deign to reply to this remark.

“What are you going to wear, Lily?” Elise put in hurriedly, throwing a reproving look at Jane.

Lily glanced at her mother.

“I wish I could go as—as a Spanish dancer!” she said timidly.

“A Spanish dancer, Lily!” cried Mrs. Deacon. “Indeed I could not permit anything of the sort! No. But it seems to me that it would be very delightful if you should affect a character very similar to Amelia’s. Why would it not be sweet for you to go together as the Two Muses, the one fair, the other brunette, representing, as it were, the poetical talent of Frederickstown? I would suggest, too, that each of you recite some little poem of her own composition. Lily, I must find that album.” And with this, Mrs. Deacon hastened from the room.

Lily looked distressed. She was terribly shy, and the thought of having her poor little verses publicly read and appraised, dyed her smooth face, with one of her frequent blushes.

“I would like to go as a Spanish Dancer, though,” she said, presently, biting off a thread with her little white teeth, “I don’t know why, but I do. I’d like to wear a comb in my hair, and a black fan, and scarlet heels!”

“You’d look lovely. I’m sure if you beg hard, your mother would let you,” wheedled Annie Lee. Lily shook her head.

“I don’t think so. And I’m afraid mamma thinks its awfully bold of me even to think of such a thing.”

“There’s nothing bold about a Spanish dancer. Just dashing,” said Dolly.

“But Lily isn’t at all dashing,” remarked Amelia.

“I want to be, though,” said Lily suddenly. “I’d like to be very, very dashing just for once in my life. I want to know what it feels like. I’m sick of being demure and lady-like. Yes, I am! And I want to wear a comb in my hair and scarlet heels.” The color rose in her cheeks, and her blue eyes shone with a rebellious light. “I—I want to—to flirt!”

“Lily!” cried Amelia, in pained astonishment, “why, whatever is the matter with you? You want to flirt? Why, I never heard of such a thing. You, of all people! Why, flirting is beneath you!”

“Oh, no, it’s not!” returned Lily, audaciously. “Do you think it’s beneath you?”

“Of course it’s beneath Amelia,” interrupted Dolly, whose brown eyes were twinkling, “Amelia’s too intellectual to care about anything like that, aren’t you?”

Amelia hesitated.

“I think that flirting is very trivial,” she said at length, in her superior way, “and no flirt ever wins a man’s solid respect. My brother-in-law says that every man really cares more about good sense, even though he may show a passing interest in frivolous people.”

“I don’t care what your brother-in-law thinks,” returned Lily, with a spirit that astounded her friends. “I feel like flirting. I’m tired of being sensible. I want to be gay, and—and dangerous.”

“Amelia, you make me weary,” said Dolly; “you pretend you aren’t the least bit interested in beaux, but I know that you pose as being intellectual, just to—well, because you think it’s one way of attracting ’em! And why are you going as Sappho if it isn’t to show off your long hair?”

A titter of mirth greeted this observation, which struck everyone but Amelia as being remarkably astute.

“Come on, Lily—let’s just see how you would look in a Spanish costume,” coaxed Annie Lee. “We can use this yellow stuff for a skirt. Has anybody got a black lace scarf and a comb?”

“I have,” said Lily, herself. “I got them about four years ago and I’ve had them hidden in my lowest bureau drawer ever since. I knew I never could use them, but I couldn’t resist them. I—I put them on sometimes when I’m alone, just to see what I look like. Aren’t I silly?”

“Go and get them,” commanded Annie Lee. But at that moment, Mrs. Deacon reappeared.

“Now here is the album,” she announced. “I just want to read you these few little things that I think perfectly dear, Amelia. You with your veins of poesy will appreciate them.”

“Oh, mamma, please,” implored the hapless Lily, turning red as fire. “Don’t! They are so awful!”

“You are so modest, Lily. Now, here is a little thing that Lily wrote when she was only fifteen, Amelia. It’s called The Pinetree.” And with a preparatory “Ahem!” Mrs. Deacon proceeded to read amidst a profound silence,

“The Pinetree stood lonely and bare, In the ghastly—no, ghostly, white light of the moon, And I wondered why it made me Feel so very full of gloom. It made me think of all the friends, Whom—Lily, dear what is this next word?”

But Lily had fled. “That child is perfectly ridiculous,” said Mrs. Deacon, with annoyance. “Now, I think these little things are full of poetic feeling. So melancholy, you know. Lily was quite a melancholy child. Just look over some of these little things, Amelia, and tell me, if you don’t think they are sweet. Read the one beginning,

“Alone, alone, why am I so alone?”

Just as this point the clock struck four, followed by the low chimes from the belfry of the nearby church, and Mrs. Deacon suddenly remembered that she was due at a committee meeting at four-fifteen.

Lily was persuaded to return, and the unfortunate subject of her “poesy” was tactfully abandoned, and now that Mrs. Deacon’s overwhelming presence was withdrawn, the discussion of scarf and scarlet heels was renewed.

“We’ll dress you up, anyway. And I’m sure that when she sees you Mrs. Deacon will let you have your way,” said Annie Lee. “Get all your things, and I’ll direct.”

Jane, from the window embrasure, watched the proceedings with a critical eye. Of all the older girls of the town—in fact of all the girls in general,—the gentle Lily was her favorite. There was not an atom of heroine-worship in her attitude; on the contrary, she felt almost older than Lily in many ways, notwithstanding the four years difference in their ages; and she felt rather sorry for Lily, without exactly knowing why. Jane, so capable herself of getting what she wanted, had the tendency of many vigorous natures, to feel a certain good-natured, wondering contempt for weaker and timid characters; but there was something about Lily’s weakness and timidity that was so perfectly in keeping with her delicately lovely face, with her daintiness and maidenliness, that it was really one of her charms, a beauty in itself.

With a sort of benevolent smile Jane observed Lily’s face color with naive pleasure, as she saw her ambition to appear “dashing and dangerous” gradually being realized under Annie Lee’s skillful manipulation of the very simple materials at hand.

In less than half an hour, the heavy, mahogany-framed mirror, reflected the gayest vision that had ever peered into its mottled surface. Jane clapped her hands delightedly.

“Now don’t you like yourself!” she crowed. Annie Lee sat back on her heels, thoroughly satisfied with her achievement. And well she might be. The vivid yellow skirt, which looked almost exactly like real satin, had been judiciously shortened to show the prettiest ankles in Frederickstown, clad in a pair of black silk stockings with scarlet clocks!—another of Lily’s hidden treasures. The black lace scarf, draped like a mantilla over the high tortoise-shell comb, fell over Lily’s slender white shoulders, and framing her face, made her skin seem more transparent, her hair blacker, her eyes bluer, and her mouth redder than before. Mrs. Deacon’s spangled black fan had been boldly rifled from her bureau drawer, and from the humble duty of stirring the listless air in church on a summer morning, had been promoted to that of fluttering coquettishly in Lily’s hand.

“If you must have scarlet heels,” said Annie Lee, “you can tear the satin off the heels of your black slippers and paint the wooden part red.”

“You do look perfectly scrumptious, Lily,” said Dolly; “there isn’t a thing wrong, and you’ve simply got to wear that costume.”

Lily, with her closed fan laid against her lips, gazed into the mirror, as if uncertain that the reflection that gazed back were really she, herself.

“I wish—” she began, and then broke off with a shame-faced, confused little smile.

Just then, Jane, who happened to glance out of the window to see how deep the snow was getting, remarked,

“There goes Mr. Sheridan. I wonder what on earth—”

“Where?” cried a chorus of voices in great excitement, and instantly every girl was at the window peering over each other’s shoulders, and fairly bursting with curiosity to see the eccentric young man, whose habits had for several weeks been the subject of much speculation in that busybody little town. Even Amelia forgot her dignity and scrambled to see him. Lily, only, tried to appear indifferent, but without complete success; for after a moment’s hesitation, she too was peeping out from behind the substantial Dolly.

The object of this flattering interest was sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, and his head bent; but presently, as if he felt the magnetism of all this concentrated attention, he looked up to the window. His expression of surprise,—even of indignation, as if he resented this notice from the “feminine element”—was almost instantly replaced by one of alertness. Jane beamed at him, and waved her hand, and he smiled back at her and lifted his hat; but, in that brief second—and Jane did not fail to note this—his eye travelled swiftly over the cluster of pretty faces, and with remarkable keenness, singled out Lily’s, and again he lifted his hat, and bowed slightly.

Jane turned quickly to see Lily blushing pink, and with an answering smile just fading from her eyes.

“Do you know him too?” she demanded. Lily pretended not to hear. Shrinking back, and pursing up her lips, she said primly,

“Aren’t you all ashamed of yourselves—rushing to stare at a stranger like that, and letting him see you, too?”

“I’d like to know why I shouldn’t,” said Annie Lee. “Anyone who is as queer as he is, deserves to be stared at.”

“What’s queer about him?” cried Lily, quite indignantly.

“Well, he never goes anywhere, and never sees anyone, and lives all alone in that big house. You may not call that queer, but I do.” returned Annie Lee.

“And he’s so handsome,” murmured Dolly, sentimentally. “I’m sure he’s had some unhappy love-affair.”

“Pooh!” said Jane, who was not romantic, “he’s no more heart-broken than I am.”

“You know very little, as yet, concerning the secret sorrows that many people hide,” said Amelia.

“When they hide them that’s one thing,” retorted Jane, “but he advertises his like a breakfast food.” Then once more she turned on Lily, remorselessly, “Do you know him, too, Miss Lily?” she repeated.

“I? Why, n-no,” said Lily, pretending to be studying her own dimpled chin in the mirror.

“He bowed to you,” insisted Jane.

“To me? Why, he didn’t do anything of the sort!”

“Lily Deacon!” cried Dolly, “you know very well he did! Any why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing. I don’t know him. How could that be? I-I only—”

“You only what?”

“Why, nothing!”

“Lily, you’re concealing something!” cried Annie Lee.

“Oh, I’m not. Don’t be so silly. It isn’t anything at all. Only last Thursday, when I was coming home from Mrs. McTavish’s I happened to take a short cut through the field there, and that hateful dog that belongs to Mr. Jenkins started to run after me, barking and growling the way he always does. I got over the stile, but he crawled under the fence, and followed me again. And I started to run, and he ran after me, and jumped up at me and frightened me to death. And Mr. Sheridan happened to be coming through the field. And he caught the dog, and told me I was a silly to run. And that’s all.”

“My dear!” breathed Dolly, “and is that all he said?”

“Oh, he just asked me if I was afraid of dogs, and I said only of some. And he said he liked them, they were so intelligent. And—and then I said I hated cats, and he said he did too; and asked me if I liked horses—”

“How long did this keep up?” inquired Annie Lee.

“There are lots of animals,” said Jane. “Did you find out how he liked cows and pigs and ducks and porcupines—”

“I think you are all mean to laugh!” cried Lily indignantly. “It was perfectly natural to say something. And he was very nice and polite.”

“And what was the dog doing meanwhile?”

“The dog? What dog? Oh—I guess it must have gone home.”

“Well!” said Amelia, “I must say, Lily, that I think it would have been quite enough if you had simply thanked him, and gone on your way. And I think that Mr. Sheridan should hardly have asked you if you liked dogs when he had never been introduced to you.”

Lily, who was easily crushed, hung her head at this reproof, and did not attempt to defend herself. Now that she thought of it in the light that Amelia’s words threw on it, it seemed nothing short of shocking that she had spoken in such a familiar vein with a young man to whom she had never been introduced. Why had she said anything about it? Now, it was all spoiled, that innocent little episode, which had given her so much pleasure just to think about. Jane, however, quickly came to her defense.

“How silly! I don’t think anyone but a prig would be as proper as all that.”

“Jane!” remonstrated Elise, “that isn’t a very nice thing to say.”

“How do you happen to know him Janey?” asked Annie Lee.

“Oh, I called on him,” replied Jane, nonchalantly.

“Called on him!”

“Well, I thought someone ought to see what he was like. And he was very nice. What I’ve been wondering is what he does with himself all the time. He says he wants solitude, and that he doesn’t want to have to see any people, but I think that’s all nonsense. I think he’s bored to death with himself.”

“Do you know what?” said Annie Lee, “I’m going to ask mother to invite him to our party. If he doesn’t want to he doesn’t have to come; but everyone else in Frederickstown is invited, and its all so informal and everything, I don’t see why we shouldn’t ask him too. It would be perfectly all right, because I think father knows him. I know father used to know Major Sheridan, because I’ve heard him talk about when they were in the Spanish American war.”

This idea became popular immediately. Even Amelia had no objections to make, and was in fact already making certain mental improvements on the costume she had planned.

But Lily was silent. Amelia’s criticism of her behavior had wounded her to the quick, and with a sober face she began quietly to take off her finery, as if some of the fascination had evaporated from that dashing Spanish comb, and even from the thought of scarlet heels.