nice," said Miss Smithson, though she felt still a little
uneasy.

"When will the affair take place?" Mr. Procter asked.

"On the fifteenth of October. We have ample time for rehearsals."

A little later Miss Smithson shook hands with Suzanna's father,
murmuring something conventional about his being fortunate in the
possession of such an interesting family. Then she was gone.

The children, bidding father good-bye, hastened on home. They burst into
the house, anxious to tell mother all about the meeting with Miss
Smithson.

Mrs. Procter listened interestedly. "And father said I might take part
in the Indian Drill," said Suzanna. "I shall have to have an outfit
perhaps and dancing shoes."

"What did father say about that?" asked Mrs. Procter, an anxious little
frown growing between her eyes.

"He said you would get them for me," Suzanna returned. She, too, looked
a little anxiously at her mother. "But Miss Smithson said perhaps she
could hire the Indian costumes."

Mrs. Procter's expression lightened.

"Well, perhaps she can," she said.

"And if she can't, mother?" Suzanna breathlessly awaited the answer.

"Well, we'll manage some way."

And Suzanna was satisfied.

A week later Mr. Procter returned home, carrying a mysterious looking
parcel.

"For you, Suzanna," he said, his eyes sparkling. "But let's not open it
until after supper."

Suzanna reluctantly put the package to one side. That supper would never
end that evening she had a firm conviction.

And yet the end was reached, and she was opening the package, attended
by the entire family. At last her eager eyes swept the contents, and her
little beating heart for the moment palpitated strangely in her throat,
for there lay a pair of shoes.

"Shoes," said Mr. Procter, "for you to wear in the Indian Drill. I saw
them thrown out in a little booth when I went into Lane's shoe shop for
a piece of leather to be made into washers. They really were marked at
so ridiculously low a figure that I thought at once we could surely
afford them for Suzanna. They are, I should judge, the very thing for
the Indian Drill."

To all of which Suzanna listened gravely. Her heart had gone back to its
normal rhythm, but her eyes could not leave the atrocities lying before
her. Truly, they were of fine leather, but with their high French heels,
and flat gilt buttons, they might have been in style when Suzanna's
mother was a very little girl, and, to be really candid, t