“Oh, Lora!” cried she, throwing an arm around the girl’s slender neck and kissing her heartily, “one can see that you come of gentle blood, and are fitter for silken embroidery than for the milking-stool which is my usual workbench.” “Nay, I would love to milk, and churn, and cook, and knit gray hosen, but father will not have it so,” said Lora a little wearily. “I may spin, and sew, and do my tent-stitch, and help mother make syllabubs and the like, but it angers him if I soil my hands or wear a homespun kirtle such as is fit for rough work”-- “Rough work and Lora are droll ideas to bring together, aren’t they, auntie?” interrupted Betty with another hug and kiss to her friend, whose sweet face had grown a little flushed and worried as she spoke. “But come, dear, I want you to go with me to see Bessie and ask her if this wonderful news is sooth. She may come, mayn’t she, auntie?” “Yes, child, so that you’re both back for supper. Father can’t abide finding Lora’s seat empty at table.” “We’ll be sure to come. Now, Loly, where’s your hood?” “Put on your sleeves and your cape, Lora. You’ll get burned else.” “Yes, mother,” replied the girl patiently, and passing into her own bedroom returned presently with a cape covering her bare neck, and buttoning some loose sleeves to her shoulders, for in that day a gown with high neck and long sleeves was a vestment unknown, and when age or cold weather or out-of-door excursions demanded a covering for shoulders and arms it was supplied, as in Lora’s case, by temporary expedients. A little white linen hood tied under the chin completed the girl’s preparation, and with a gentle kiss upon her mother’s cheek she joined Betty impatiently waiting upon the doorstep.