letter he himself had
posted, was responsible for that look on her face.

"I guess I'll have to be going," he exclaimed, getting to his feet with
the conviction that he had borne all that was possible for the time
being.

Persis glanced up in surprise. "Already, Thomas? Well, give my love
to Nellie when you see her." She crossed the room and placed the
letter in her writing-desk, that triumphant smile still transforming
her face.

It might have brought comfort to Thomas' heart if he had seen her an
hour or two later, for the smile had disappeared. She stood before the
plush-framed photograph upon the mantel, a strange wistful wonder on
her face.

"Oh, Justin," she whispered as she looked. "Oh, Justin, Justin!" She
put out her hands as if for all their capable strength they felt the
need of a comforting touch. And then the amiable young face smiling
back at her, blurred before her wet appealing eyes.

CHAPTER IX

A DAY TO HERSELF

Persis had resolved on a new gown.

The livelier iris which in spring changes on the burnished dove,
reveals nature's universal tactics. On looking over her wardrobe after
her day at the Hornblower farm, Persis had been appalled by its
manifest shortcomings. The black mohair, held to the light, betrayed
an unmistakable greenish tinge. The navy blue was long since out of
style. As for the wine-colored henrietta, it had never been becoming.
The material had been presented Persis by a customer who had
unexpectedly gone into mourning, and she had made it up and worn it
with much the emotion of an old-time penitent in his hair-cloth shirt.
And yet in twenty-four hours the mohair had not become perceptibly
greener nor was the blue more strikingly passee. It was Persis herself
who had changed.

As she stood before the mirror, fitting her own lining, she defended
her course as the wisest women will do, though when judge, jury and
advocate are all one, the verdict is a foregone conclusion. She
tightened the seam under her arm, used the scissors discreetly here and
there, and continued to argue the point, though there was none who had
a right to question or to criticize.

"It's bad policy for a dressmaker to go around shabby. It's like a
doctor with an invalid wife and sickly children. And anyway, I haven't
had anything new for over a year, unless I count that blue chambray
wrapper. As little as I spend on clothes, I guess when I do want a new
gown it's nobody's busi