“No, but I can tell you the real reason, now that the way has cleared for you to go in proper raiment. I had a letter the other day from my friend, Bertha Martin. We were buddies over there in France, and there is no one I like better. Well, she married before we left, and I was her bridesmaid, the first and only time I ever served in that capacity. She has been begging me to come to see her. Now she is in her own home, and is bent and determined that I should spend Christmas with her, and I confess, Ellen, that I am crazy to go. It wouldn’t cost any more than our keep here, you see.” “And you were going to stay at home because of me. Oh, Cousin Rindy! I could go to Caro or somebody.” “I hadn’t thought of that, and besides I’m not going to have you make a convenience of any one. You’d rather go to the city, wouldn’t you?” “Oh, yes.” “Then we’ll try to fix it up. I’ll write to Bertha to-day, and you can write to your friend, Mrs. Austin.” But Ellen decided that it would be better to consult Mr. Barstow, who, as an intimate friend of the Austins, could tell her if a visit would be acceptable to the latter. An answer came by return mail; Ellen was to come right along. Mrs. Austin was writing to urge her not to fail them. They would have a jolly time. Mr. Barstow himself was planning all sorts of things. She wasn’t to fuss over a holiday outfit; they could dress her up in studio properties and call her a lay figure or a model or something like that. The cheery, cordial letter was very heartening. Once more would Ellen have a share in those things which she loved, in the unconventional way of living, the informal parties, the free-and-easy companionship. The letter from Mrs. Austin gave assurance that she was very much wanted, and she began her preparations with a light heart. Miss Rindy was almost as excited as Ellen. “I’ll get those frocks altered in short order,” she said. “I think we’d better go over your mother’s trunks and see if there is anything in them that would be useful to you in the city. Now that you are sixteen, Ellen, things would be suitable for you that wouldn’t have been a year or more ago.” “But what about you? Surely you have something to do for yourself.” “Not much.” “You certainly need a new hat, Cousin Rindy. Aren’t you going to get one?” “No, I am not. Do you think I’m made of money? If Bertha Martin doesn’t like me in my old hat, she can let me alone. She has seen me in a worse rig than any I’m likely to appear in now.” “You are going to take your lace dress.” “Yes, I’ll take that, although I always feel guilty about wearing it when I think that you may need it some day.” “That I never shall. Long before I am old enough to wear it I hope to be able to buy all sorts of splendor.” “You are very optimistic, I must confess. If you can provide yourself with one decent dress a year, you’ll be doing well.”