deal of attention to dress in that way." She
spoke, if not smilingly, then at least in the even tone which people now
called "always so cheerful."

"Oh, I don't know what you really _were_, I only meant how you looked. I
am glad, at least, that you acknowledge that it takes a great stock of
vanity to go against all the fashions. Well, you don't look Quakerish
now!"

"You like the dress, then?"

"It's _lovely_," said Aunt Katrina, scanning every detail from the hat
to the shoe. "Expensive, of course?"

"Yes."

"And Lanse likes that?"

"He wishes me to dress richly; he says it's more becoming to me."

"I think that's so nice of him, he wants you to look, I suppose, as well
as you _can_" said Aunt Katrina, magnanimously. "And certainly you do
look a great deal better."

Whether Margaret looked better was a question whose answer depended upon
the personal taste of those who saw her; she looked, at least, very
different. The sumptuous wrap with its deep fringes, the lace of the
scarf, the general impression of costly fabrics and of color in her
attire, brought out the outlines of her face, as the curling waves of
her hair over her forehead deepened the blue of her eyes. On her white
arms now, at home in the evenings, bracelets gleamed, the flash of rings
came from her little hands; her slender figure trailed behind it rich
silks of various light hues.

"You are a beautiful object nowadays, Margaret," Lanse said more than
once. "Fancy your having known how, all this time, without ever having
used your talent!"

"It's my dress-maker's talent."

"Yes; she must have a great deal to carry out your orders."

He was especially pleased one evening. She came in, bringing his
newspaper, which had just arrived by the steamer; she was dressed in a
long gleaming gown of satin, with long tight sleeves; she wore a little
ruff of Venetian lace, there was a golden comb in her dark-hair. A fan
made of the bright plumage of some tropical bird lay against the satin
of her skirt; it hung by a ribbon from the broad satin belt, which,
fastened by a golden buckle, defined her slender waist.

"You look like a fine old engraving," he said.

She stood holding the paper towards him. But for a moment he did not
take it, he was surveying her critically; then he lifted his eyes to her
face, there was a smile in them. "You did it--do it--to please me?" he
said.

She did not answer.

"Because you think it your duty to do what I wish. A