“Oh no; though I was asked, and so was Miss Wetmore, I believe. Of course poor Mrs. Yellett had no other recourse, as I suppose you know. I chose to be disobliging that time, and was sorry for it afterwards—sorry when I heard about the letter that really went! Do you find the sheep-wagon so very dreadful?” “I thought,” laughed Mary, “that it was going to be like a picture I saw in a magazine, Mexican hammocks, grass cushions, and a lady pouring tea from a samovar; instead it was the sheep-wagon and ‘Do you sleep light or dark?’ There is Mrs. Yellett calling us to dinner. Shall I have a chance to talk to you alone afterwards?” “I’ve come all the way from Dax’s to see you,” explained Judith, with characteristic directness. “We have all the afternoon.” “Really!” Mary displayed a flash of school-girl enthusiasm. “I feel as if I could almost bear the scenery.” Presumably Judith was a favorite guest of the Yellett household, and not without reason. She took her place in the circle about the homely, steaming fare, with an ease and grace that suggested that dining off the ground was an every-day affair with her, and chairs and tables undreamed-of luxuries. Mary envied her ready tact. Why could she not meet these people with Judith’s poise—bring out the best of them, as she did? The boys talked readily and naturally—there was even a flavor to what they said. As for herself, try never so conscientiously and she would be confronted by frank amusement or shy distrust. Even “paw” beamed at Judith appreciatively as he consumed his meal with infinite, toothless labor. The Spartan family became almost sprightly under the pleasantly stimulating influence of its guest. “What kind of basques are they wearing this summer, Judy?” inquired Mrs. Yellett, regarding her guest’s trim shirt-waist judicially. “I reckon them loose, meal-sack things must be all the go since you and Miss Mary both have ’em; but give me a good, tight-fittin’ basque, every time. How’s any one to know whether you got a figure or not, in a thing that never hits you anywhere?” questioned the matriarch, not without a touch of pride anent her own fine proportions. “You really ought to have a shirt-waist, Mrs. Yellett. You’ve no idea of the comfort of them, till you’ve worn them.” “I don’t see but I’ll have to come to it.” Her tone was frankly regretful, as one who feels obliged to follow the behests of fashion, yet, in so doing, sacrifices a cherished ideal. Mary Carmichael choked over her coffee in an abortive attempt to restrain her audible hilarity. Judith, without a trace of amusement, was discussing materials, cut, and buttons; the plainswoman had proved herself the better gentlewoman of the two.