ell, I couldn't do anything!" said her mother, with her wholesome
laugh. "Come, Tess," she added briskly, "we'll go down. Don't worry,
dear; we'll find some way out of it for Marg'ret."

She entered the parlors with her usual genial smile a few minutes
later, and the flow of conversation that never failed her.

"Mary, you'd ought always to wear that Greek-lookin' dress," said Mrs.
Costello, en passant. "Sister, if you don't want me in any of the
dances, I'll take meself out of your way! No, indeed, the Mayor won't
be annoyed by anything, girls, so go ahead with your duets, for he's
taken the boys off to the Orpheum an hour ago, the way they couldn't be
at their tricks upsettin' everything!" And presently she laid her hand
on Marg'ret Hammond's shoulder. "Are they workin' you too hard,
Marg'ret?"

Marg'ret's answer was smiling and ready, but Mrs. Costello read more
truthfully the color on the little face, and the distress in the bright
eyes raised to hers, and sighed as she found a big chair and settled
herself contentedly to watch and listen.

Marg'ret was wearing Joe's surplice, there was no doubt of that. But,
Mrs. Costello wondered, how many of the nuns and girls had noticed it?
She looked shrewdly from one group to another, studying the different
faces, and worried herself with the fancy that certain undertones and
quick glances WERE commenting upon the dress. It was a relief when
Marg'ret slipped out of it, and, with the other girls, assumed the
Greek costume she was to wear in the play. The Mayor's wife,
automatically replacing the drawing string in a cream-colored toga
lavishly trimmed with gold paper-braid, welcomed the little respite
from her close watching.

"By Nero's Command" was presently in full swing, and the room echoed to
stately phrases and glorious sentiments, in the high-pitched clear
voices of the small performers. Several minutes of these made all the
more startling a normal tone, Marg'ret Hammond's everyday voice, saying
sharply in a silence:

"Well, then, why don't you SAY it?"

There was an instant hush. And then another voice, that of a girl named
Beatrice Garvey, answered sullenly and loudly:

"I WILL say it, if you want me to!"

The words were followed by a shocked silence. Every one turned to see
the two small girls in the centre of the improvised stage, the other
performers drawing back instinctively. Mrs. Costello caught her breath,
and half rose from her chair. She had heard, a