Peter, just like grandmother does--always!"

"Yes," admitted Peter, "and it's been very jolly and friendly. But,
Sheila, I must have _something_ to remind me that you're still a little
girl and my pupil. There's nothing in your appearance to suggest it,
but perhaps--if you will address me with a great deal of respect----"

At that, Sheila laughed and patted her frock: "Oh, I understand you
now! Do I really seem so grown-up?"

"So grown-up that I can't understand how Mrs. Caldwell came to let you
do it."

"Oh, Peter! _Oh, Peter_!"

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked, surprised at the poignant
exclamation. But she turned abruptly away from him, and presently he
saw her blue gown flutter through a distant doorway.

"Now I wonder," he pondered, "what in the world I've done. Offended
her by appearing to criticize Mrs. Caldwell, I suppose."

But Peter had done a much graver thing than that. Unconsciously, he
had summoned Sheila's conscience to its deserted duty; and already,
like any well-intentioned conscience that has taken a vacation, it was
making up for lost time.

With that comment of Peter's--"I can't understand how Mrs. Caldwell
came to let you do it"--Sheila's little house of pleasure suddenly
tumbled to the ground. She had not meant to be sorry about the
deception of the frock until _after_ the party, and until her encounter
with Peter she had been successful enough in holding penitence at bay.
That vision of herself in the mirror, seeming to answer some longing of
her very soul, had indeed kept her forgetful of everything but a sense
of fulfillment and triumph. But now, reminded of her grandmother, she
began to be sorry at once--impatiently, violently sorry.

"I must go home," she murmured to herself distressfully, as she slipped
unobserved through the crowded rooms. "I must go home. I can't wait
until morning! I must tell grandmother _now_!"

And so it happened that Mrs. Caldwell, looking out from her
sitting-room window into the early spring night, saw a slim figure
speed up her garden path as if urged by some importunate need; and the
next moment Sheila was kneeling before her, with her face hidden upon
her shoulder.

"Why, Sheila!--dear child!"

"Oh, grandmother, will you forgive me?"

"What should I forgive you? I'm sure you've done nothing wrong this
time!" And Mrs. Caldwell, who was accustomed to the rigors of Sheila's
conscience, smiled above the face on her breast with tender