CHAPTER XIII
THERE she sat, rigid, stern, admonishing. Reba made an attempt to smile, and raised her bare arm and waved. But there was no sign of recognition from Aunt Augusta. Reba never knew quite how she managed to summon enough courage to raise herself out of the water and expose to Aunt Augusta's merciless gaze her long bare legs and gleaming arms. Somehow, of course, she did accomplish it, for she found herself nervously dressing a minute or so later, teeth chattering (foolishly, for she was not cold) and a feeling in her throat that choked and hurt. What did it mean? Why had she come? Was anything wrong at home? Why couldn't she have written, and have been properly met and received?
When finally Reba was in a presentable costume, she hurried out of the little dressing-room, glanced into the mirror at the end of the corridor, and then hastened up the stairs to the gallery. It was empty. Aunt Augusta was not there. Down the stairs again she rushed—eager, anxious.
"Callers for you in the parlor," called out some one.
"Oh, thank you," gasped Reba.
When she entered the parlor a few minutes later, at the far end of the room she caught a glimpse of a familiar short black-stringed plume, at a familiar angle, on a familiar black-stringed bonnet. Also the white top of her father's head, half hidden by the low
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