ess which astonished her friend.

It was something of a relief to all three when the brilliantly
illuminated house and grounds belonging to Mrs. Solomon Black came in
view. Japanese lanterns in lavish abundance had been strung from tree
to tree and outlined the piazza and the walk leading to the house.

"Doesn't it look lovely!" cried Ellen, scattering her vexation to the
winds. "I never saw anything so pretty!"

Inside the house further surprises awaited them; the music of harp
and violins stole pleasantly through the flower-scented rooms, which
were softly lighted with shaded lamps the like of which Brookville
had never seen before.

Mrs. Solomon Black, arrayed in a crisp blue taffeta, came bustling to
meet them. But not before Fanny's swift gaze had penetrated the
assembled guests. Yes! there was Wesley Elliot's tall figure. He was
talking to Mrs. Henry Daggett at the far end of the double parlors.

"Go right up stairs and lay off your things," urged their hostess
hospitably. "Ladies to the right; gents to the left. I'm so glad you
came, Fanny. I'd begun to wonder--"

The girl's lip curled haughtily. The slight emphasis on the personal
pronoun and the fervid squeeze of Mrs. Black's fat hand hurt her sore
heart. But she smiled brilliantly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Black, I wouldn't have missed it for worlds!" she
said coldly.

Chapter VII

"Does my hair look decent?" asked Ellen, as the two girls peered into
the mirror together. "The dew does take the curl out so. It must be
lovely to have naturally curly hair, like yours, Fanny. It looks all
the prettier for being damp and ruffled up."

Fanny was pulling out the fluffy masses of curling brown hair about
her forehead.

"Your hair looks all right, Ellen," she said absent-mindedly.

She was wondering if Wesley Elliot would speak to her.

"I saw that Orr girl," whispered Ellen; "she's got on a white dress,
all lace, and a black sash. She does look pretty, Fanny; we'll have
to acknowledge it."

"Ye-es," murmured Fanny who was drawing on a pair of fresh white
gloves.

"You aren't going to wear those gloves down stairs, are you, Fan? I
haven't got any."

"My hands are all stained up with currant jelly," explained Fanny
hurriedly. "Your hands are real pretty, Ellen."

Ellen glanced down at her capable, brown hands, with their blunt
finger-tips.

"Did you ever notice _her_ hands, Fanny?"

Fanny shook her head.

"Her nails are cut kind of pointed,