shining full in their
happy eyes. Over their shoulders were garlands of poppies, roses,
sweet-peas, daisies, carnations, lilies, or other blossoms; their hands
were full of flowers. But it was the radiance of their faces that shone
brightest, after all. It was the little consumptive's ecstatic smile,
as she sat resting against an invisible support; it was the joy in Mary
Scott's thin eager face, framed now in her loosened dark hair, and with
the shadow, like her crutch, laid aside for a while, that somehow
brought tears to the eyes that watched. Santa Paloma cheered and
applauded these forgotten children of hers; and the children laughed
and waved their hands in return.

Youth and happiness and summer-time incarnate, the vision went on its
way, down the bright street; and other carriages followed it, and were
praised as those that had gone before had been. But no entry in any
flower parade that Santa Paloma had ever known, was as much discussed
as this one. Indeed, it began a new era; but that was later on. When
Mrs. Burgoyne's plain white frock appeared among the elaborate gowns
worn at the club luncheon that afternoon, she was quite overwhelmed by
congratulations. She went away very early, to superintend the
children's luncheon at the Hall, and then Mrs. White had a chance to
tell the distinguished guests who she was, and that she could well
afford to play Lady Bountiful to the Santa Paloma children.

"One wouldn't imagine it, she seems absolutely simple and unspoiled,"
said Mrs. Governor.

"She is!" said Mrs. Lloyd unexpectedly.

"I told her how scared most of us had been at the mere idea of her
coming here, Parker," Mrs. Lloyd told her husband later, "and how
friendly she is, and that she always wears little wash dresses, and
that the other girls are beginning to wear checked aprons and things,
because her girls do! Of course, I said it sort of laughingly, you
know, but I don't think Clara White liked it ONE BIT, and I don't care!
Clara is rather mad at me, anyway," she went on, musingly, "because
yesterday she telephoned that she was going to send that Armenian
peddler over here, with some Madeira lunch cloths. They WERE beauties,
and only twenty-three dollars; you'd pay fifty for them at Raphael
Weil's--they're smuggled, I suppose! But I simply said, 'Clara, I can't
afford it!' and let it go at that. She laughed--quite cattily,
Parker!--and said, 'Oh, that's rather funny!' But I don't care whether
Clara White