e night of
the dance they came down-stairs with solemn, dutiful faces, and lifted
submissive eyes to their mother for judgment. She was looking charmingly
pretty herself, carrying her thick white hair with a humorous boldness,
and her smiling brown eyes were younger than their gray ones.

"Very well, twinnies! Now you look something like human girls," she said
gaily. "Run and have a beautiful time. Ah, Amelie, you little fairy!
They will all be on their knees to you to-night. Where is Enid?"

"Nowhere near dressed, and she won't hurry," Amelie explained. "Oh, I am
so excited, I shall die! What if no one asks me to dance!"

"Silly!" Mrs. Baldwin laughed. "I am only afraid of your dancing
yourself to death. Ah, Mrs. Merritt, how good of you to come with your
dear girls! And Mr. Merritt--this is better than I dared hope."

The rooms filled rapidly. Enid, after one languid waltz, disappeared
with Harry and was not seen again till supper. Amelie flew from partner
to partner, pouring streams of vivacious talk into patient masculine
ears. The twins were dutifully taken out in turn and unfailingly brought
back. Both Mr. White and Mr. Morton came, serious young men who danced
little, and looked on more as if the affair were a problem in sociology
than an entertainment. There were plenty of men, for Mrs. Baldwin's
entertainments had a reputation in the matter of supper, music, and
floors.

"After you've worked through the family, you can have a ripping old
time," Cora heard one youth explain to another; a moment later he stood
in front of her, begging the honor of a waltz. She felt no resentment;
her sympathies were all with him. She looked up with gentle seriousness.

"You needn't, you know," she said. "Dora and I don't really expect
it--we understand." He looked so puzzled that she added: "I overheard
you just now, about 'working through the family.'"

He grew distressfully red and stammered wildly. Cora came at once to his
rescue.

"Really, it's all right. We don't like parties, ourselves; only it is
hard on mother to have such sticks of daughters, so we do our best. But
we never mind when people don't ask us. Sometimes we almost wish they
wouldn't."

The youth was trying desperately to collect himself. "What _do_ you
like, then?" he managed to ask.

"Oh, books, and the country, and not having to be introduced to people."
She was trying to put him at his ease. "We really do like dancing: we do
it better than you'd