angles of parliamentary law, in which, as every one knows, much
really important legislation is strangled.

When the meeting adjourned at quarter of six, an hour which sent
prudent housewives scurrying homeward, Mrs. Sophia Warren was the duly
elected president of the Clematis Woman's Club, while Susan Fitzgerald
had accepted the duties of secretary of the organization. The members
had voted to meet weekly, taking up the study of English literature,
and current events, the two subjects to divide the program equally.
The club was to hold itself in readiness to grapple with questions of
civic improvement, and already a committee had been appointed to
arrange for a Harvest Home Festival at the county almshouse for the
edification of the inmates. It really began to look as if the horizon
of a number of people would be enlarged and the community as a whole
uplifted, with or without its consent.

CHAPTER V

DIANTHA GROWS UP.

Now that Annabel Sinclair had no immediate use for Persis' services,
Diantha's wardrobe could receive attention. The girl presented herself
at the dressmaker's late one afternoon, her smooth forehead disfigured
by an irritated frown, her mouth resolutely unsmiling. Under one arm
she carried a roll of cheap white lawn. Annabel frequently commented
on the uselessness of buying expensive materials for a girl who grew as
rapidly as Diantha, though the reasonableness of this contention was
slightly discounted by her recognized ability to demonstrate that the
cream of things was invariably her portion, while an all-wise
Providence had obviously designed the skimmed milk for the rest of the
world.

Her eyes upon the girl's averted face, Persis measured off the coarse
stuff, using her arm as a yard-stick. "Hm! Even with skirts as skimpy
as they are now, this won't be enough by a yard and a half. Better
call it two yards. It's high time your skirts were coming down where
they belong. You can't stay a little girl forever."

Some magic had erased the fretful pucker between Diantha's brows. The
grim ungirlish compression of her lips softened into angelic mildness.
As she turned upon Persis, she looked an older sister of the Sistine
cherubs.

"How long--about how long do you think it had better be, Miss Persis?"

"I should say"--Persis looked her over with an impersonal air, lending
weight to the resulting judgment--"I should say about to your
shoe-tops."

Had she guessed the consequences