was
disconcertingly unlike the little girl she had known. She looked older
than her years, stately, self-contained and beautiful. It was not till
Persis had fortified herself by the reflection that she might as well
be hung for an old sheep as for a lamb, that she ventured another
revolutionary suggestion.

"Diantha, I s'pose you'll make some change in the way you do your hair?"

"Yes, indeed." Diantha, scrutinizing herself in the mirror, frowned at
the drooping curls with an air of restrained disgust. "This way is
only suitable for children."

Persis' negligent gesture called attention to the open door of the
bedroom. "There's a box of hairpins on the dresser. If you like, you
can fix yourself up and surprise your mother."

Diantha vanished swiftly. She had no illusions regarding the nature of
the coming surprise. Her mother would be very angry, but the sooner
that storm had spent itself, the better. Relentlessly the golden curls
were sacrificed to the impressive coiffure of the woman of fashion.
For a novice Diantha was remarkably deft, her skill suggesting periods
of anticipatory practise with her door locked and no eyes but her own
to admire the effect.

During the progress of this rite, Persis in the adjoining room, looked
at the clock, glanced at the window and then paced the floor, for once
in her well-disciplined life too nervous to utilize the flying moments.
Persis was in the dilemma of a stage manager whose curtain is ready to
go up, and whose _prima donna_ is about to appear, while the audience
has failed to materialize. To such mischances does one subject one's
self in assuming the responsibilities of a deputy-providence.

Then her brow cleared, even while her heart jumped into her throat.
The gate clicked, and a lithe figure swung up the path. Persis took
her time in answering the peremptory knock.

"Good afternoon, Miss Persis. Mother said that you--"

"Walk in, Thad. Yes, I've a little package to send your mother. Sit
down while I look for it."

Would the girl never come! The curtain was rung up, the audience
waiting. But the stage was empty. How long a time in Heaven's name
did Diantha expect to spend in combing her hair. "I should think she
was waiting for it to grow," thought the harassed Persis. Very
deliberately she opened and closed every drawer in the old-fashioned
secretary, though she knew the upper contained only old letters and the
second, garden seeds.

Thad wa