transitoriness, of loneliness, of not belonging, poor Sally sank to her knees beside the bed and buried her bright head in its quilts. There she remained very still for a long, long time, with only the irritated squawk of the cockatoo, who had been awakened by Cudje's bedtime candle, breaking the silence from below.
Sally deliberately primped that next evening before Mistress Van Houten's mirror. Enemy or no enemy, she meant to look her very best; for she had a plan under her red-gold curls by which she hoped to achieve wonderful things. And some plans, some feminine instinct told her, are ever helped by pleasing attire and bright eyes and curls that tumble riotously about the cheek. She turned self-consciously, when the door opened and Mistress Van Houten entered the room hurriedly. "Will I do?" she asked demurely.
Mistress Van Houten's gaze brightened. "Splendidly!" she exclaimed. "Is it not lucky that I had some o' the gowns outgrown by Hans's niece left in my chest? I know not how many times I ha' started to give them away, and always something inside whispered, 'Wait!'" She paused and stared at the dainty, brilliant little figure in blue satin gown and lace overskirt. "Ye will make a nice sixth guest this even, my child—I needed a sixth!" she finished, with a kind smile. To herself she
