he receipt book of the late Mrs.
Ponsonby--with the modicum of sugar prescribed, till in despair she
had resorted to a pinch of gelatine, and felt that the shade of her
mother-in-law was ticking the word _incompetent_ from the clock in the
hall--when suddenly the watchword was drowned in the stertorous
breathing of the machine at the gate, and Polly whisked in without
ringing and met Deena face to face.

"We have come to take you for a spin in our new automobile," Polly
cried, gayly. "Where is Simeon? You think he would not care to go?
Well, leave him for once, and come as far as Wolfshead, and we will
lunch there and bring you back before sunset."

Deena's delicate complexion was reddened by the heat of the preserve
kettle, her sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and a checked apron
with a bib acted as overalls. Polly twitched her to the stairs.

"What a fright you make of yourself," she exclaimed; "and yet, I
declare, you are pretty, in spite of it! Ben has to go down in the
town to get some more gasoline, and then he means to persuade Stephen
French to go with us, so rush upstairs and change your dress while I
report to him that you will go, and he will come back for us in half
an hour."

Stephen French, who was to make the fourth in the automobile, was
Harmouth's young professor of zooelogy, a favorite alike with the
students and the dons, with the social element in the town as well as
the academic. To Ben Minthrop he had been a saving grace during a
rather dissipated career at college, and now that that young gentleman
was married, and his feet set in the path of commercial
respectability, the friendship was even more cemented. On Ben's part
there was admiration and gratitude, on Stephen's the genuine liking an
older man has for a youngster who has had the pluck to pull himself
together. It was a bond between the Shelton sisters that their
husbands shared one sentiment in common--namely, a romantic affection
for Stephen French.

Deena was standing in her petticoat when her sister joined her in her
bed-room--not in a petticoat of lace and needlework, such as peeped
from under the edge of Polly's smart frock as she threw herself into a
chair, but a skimpy black silk skirt with a prim ruffle, made from an
old gown of Mrs. Ponsonby's. It was neat and fresh, however, and her
neck and arms, exposed by her little tucked underwaist, were of a
beauty to ravish a painter or a sculptor. Polly herself, boyish and
angu