mean by putting on such a rig! Don't you know I have company to tea?"
"Yes, and that is just why I put it on, Aunt Janet. I want to mortify the flesh—"
"I'll 'mortify' you, if I catch you showing yourself to the Millwards like that, my girl! Go right home and dress yourself decently—or eat your supper in the kitchen."
The Story Girl chose the latter alternative. She was highly indignant. I verily believe that to sit at the dining-room table, in that shabby, outgrown dress, conscious of looking her ugliest, and eating only bread and water before the critical Millwards would have been positive bliss to her.
When we went to the missionary meeting that evening, the Story Girl wore her school dress and hat, while Felicity and Cecily were in their pretty muslins. And she had tied her hair with a snuff-brown ribbon which was very unbecoming to her.
The first person we saw in the church porch was Mrs. Ray. She told us that Sara had nothing worse than a feverish cold.
The missionary had at least seven happy listeners that night. We were all glad that Sara did not have measles, and the Story Girl was radiant.
"Now you see all your penance was wasted," said Felicity, as we walked home, keeping close together because of the rumour that Peg Bowen was abroad.
"Oh, I don't know. I feel better since I punished myself. But I'm going to make up for it to-mor-
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