cked to a
dancing frock which her mother had been told to make as fancy as she
pleased, Winona hastily scribbled in her journal: "Am I of a gay
disposition? Too gay, too volatile? No matter! It is an agreeable defect
where one retains discretion sufficient for its regulation. This very
night I am one of a party avowedly formed for pleasure, something my
reflective mind would once have viewed with disapprobation. But again no
matter. Perhaps I have been too analytical, too introspective. Perhaps
the war has confused my sense of spiritual values. War is such a
mistake!"

It was a flushed and sparkling Winona who later fluttered down the dull
old stairs of the respectable Penniman home at the call of the waiting
Wilbur Cowan. Her dark hair was still plainly, though rather
effectively, drawn about her small head--she had definitely rebuffed the
suggestion of her mother that it be marcelled--but her wisp of a frock
of bronze gossamer was revolutionary in the extreme. Mrs. Penniman had
at last been fancy in her dressmaking for her child, and now stood by to
exclaim at her handiwork. Winona, with surprising _aplomb_, bore the
scrutiny of the family while she pulled long white gloves along her bare
arms. A feathered fan dangled from one of them.

"Now, I guess you believe me," said Mrs. Penniman. "Haven't I always
said what a few little touches would do for you?" Proudly she adjusted a
filmy flounce to a better line. "And such lovely, lovely slippers!"

The slippers were indeed to be observed by one and all. The short
dancing frock was in that year.

Wilbur Cowan was appreciative.

"Some kid!" he cried; "an eyeful!"

Winona pouted for the second time that day, instead of rebuking him for
these low phrases of the street. Only Judge Penniman caviled.

"Well, I'd like to know what we're coming to," he grumbled. "The idee of
a mere chit like her goin' out to a place that's no better than a
saloon, even if you do guzzle your drinks at a table--and in a dug-out
dress!"

Winona, instead of feeling rebuked, was gratified to be called a mere
chit. She pouted at the invalid.

"Poor father!" she loftily murmured, and stood while her mother threw
the evening cloak about her acceptable shoulders.

It was true that at the La Boheme alcoholic stimulant would be served to
those who desired it, but this was not compulsory, and the place was in
no sense a common saloon. Her father was old-fashioned, as he had shown
himself to be abo