She did not stop to define her feelings. She was wounded, but she felt sharp resentment, and she was thinking rebelliously that she was in no degree responsible for Bonnie May. Still ... her sense of justice stayed her. She had the conviction that the child’s remark, if inexcusably frank, was a fair one. And it had been made so joyously! However, she meant to go to her mother with a request to be excused from any further humiliation as Bonnie May’s handmaiden. But before she had proceeded half a dozen steps she began to fear even greater disaster, if Mrs. Baron should undertake to be the bearer of the rejected dress. It would be a victory worth working for, if she could overcome the fastidious guest’s prejudice. She went to her room and carefully buttoned her shoes and made other improvements in her toilet. Then she went back into Bonnie May’s presence. “I _was_ untidy,” she confessed. “I hope you’ll excuse me.” She was smoothing out the new dress. “You see, I only meant to wear my every-day shoes until after breakfast, and then put on my good shoes, for Sunday-school and church. And I’ve been very busy.” Bonnie May pondered this judicially. “It’s lovely of you to be so nice about it,” she finally admitted, “but I’m afraid I don’t get your idea....” She frowned. “Every-day shoes’ and ‘Sunday shoes,’” she repeated vaguely. “Well?” said Flora persuasively. “Don’t you like to be as good on Saturday as on Sunday?” “Why, yes--just as good, certainly.” Flora was looking bewildered. “And on Friday, and on other days?” “Yes, I think so.” “Well, why shouldn’t you wear your ‘good’ shoes all the week, then?” “But people must look nicer on Sundays than on other days.” “I don’t see why. If you only look nice, I don’t see what’s the good. And if you really are nice, I think the nice shoes might help all the time.” “What I mean is,” persisted Flora patiently, “I don’t like to work in my nice shoes.” She brought this out somewhat triumphantly. “That’s funny. That’s the very time I like to look my best. Nothing is as important as your work, is it?” Flora was almost in despair. “I doubt if I ever thought of it in just that light,” she admitted. “I’ll think it over, if you’ll try the dress on--and if you don’t like it, off it comes!” “Well, all right.” (This with a sudden calm which was not reassuring.) Flora slipped the gingham dress into place, and patted it here and there with the air of one who admires, and viewed it with her head inclined a little, as women do in such a situation. “It’s the dearest thing!” she said honestly. “Now come and see how you look.” The mirror was a little high. She lifted Bonnie May to a chair. She was alarmed by what ensued. The child stared fixedly, with incredulous eyes in which a great horror grew. “Oh, Lord!” she cried, clapping her hands over her eyes. “Take it off! Take it off!” “What in the world is the matter?” demanded Flora.