gray November morning is not an inspiriting hour to
begin any undertaking. Amy turned in her comfortable bed, rubbed her
eyes, saw Cleena standing near with a lighted candle in her hand, and
inquired, drowsily:--

"Why--what's happened? Why will you get up in the middle of the night?
Don't bother me--yet."

"Faith, an' I won't. Upon honor it's wrong, it's all wrong. What'll your
guardian angel think of old Cleena to be leavin' you do it! Body an'
bones, I'll do naught to further the business--not I!"

The woman's voice was tremulous with indignation or grief, and all at
once Amy remembered. Then she sprang from her cosy nest, wide-awake and
full of courage.

"Hush, dear old Goodsoul, I forgot. I forgot, entirely. I was dreaming
of Fairacres. It was a beautiful dream. The old house was full of little
children and young girls. They were singing and laughing and moving
about everywhere. I can hardly believe it wasn't real; but, I'm all
right now. I'll be down stairs in a few minutes. Don't wake anybody
else, for there's no need. Is it six o'clock already? It might be
midnight or--any time. Why, what's this?"

"A frock I've made for you, child."

"_You_ made a frock for me? Why, Cleena!"

"Sure, it's not so handy with the needle as the broom me fingers is. But
what for no? Them pretty white ones will never do for the nasty old
mill. This didn't need so much. The body'll about fit, thinks I, if I
sew it fast in the front an' split it behind. The skirt's not so very
long. She was a mite of a woman, God rest her. Well, I'll go an' see the
milk doesn't boil over, an' be back in a jiffy to fasten it for you. Ah,
me lamb! Troth, a spirit's brave like your own will be prospered, I
know."

Then Cleena went hurriedly out of the room. The frock which she had
prepared for Amy's use in the mill was remodelled from an old one of her
mistress's. As has been said, Amy had never worn any sort of dress
except white. The fabric was changed to suit the season, but the color
was not. Even her warm winter cloak was of heavy white wool, faced here
and there with scarlet, to match the simple scarlet headgear that suited
her dark face so well. Quite against the habits of her own upbringing,
Mrs. Kaye had clothed her daughter to please the taste of her artist
husband, and therefore it had not greatly mattered that this taste
dictated a style more fanciful than useful.

Now everything was altered, and Cleena had consulted Mrs. Jones with