It did seem that so severe a lesson as this should be sufficient even for the Imp. Yet the very next morning Doris found herself involved once more. Going to the girls' closet on an errand, she was surprised to find Zee's school shoes, sensible, comfortable, roomy shoes of enduring calf-skin. The "Sunday shoes," of nice shiny patent leather, were not in sight. Yet Zee had gone to school. "She is almost as problematic as Rosalie herself," said Doris. She knew Zee's passion for the Sunday shoes, and that the calf-skin ones were abhorred by her fastidious young soul. But that she would openly revolt and toss all orders to the winds--Doris grieved over it heavily. But she would not take this to father, poor soul, he had trouble enough with her yesterday, and Davison's funeral to-day was grief enough. When Zee came into the dining-room at noon she wore the calf-skin boots. Doris could hardly believe her eyes. Yet there they were--and a serene smile on Zee's merry face. "Miss Hodges and I got along like cooing doves this morning," she announced triumphantly. "She said I had my lesson perfectly, and I said her new hat was very becoming." When the girls came to the kitchen to say good-by to Doris before starting back to school, she left her work and followed them to the front door. Zee still wore the heavy shoes, but she hung about impatiently, plainly waiting till Doris should return to her work. At last, depressed in attitude, the two girls started away, and Doris disappeared. Just a moment later came the sound of skipping running steps, and Zee slipped in and darted for the stairs. "Zee!" Zee halted abruptly, one foot poised for the step. "Were you going up to change your shoes?" "Y--yes." "Don't you know you are not allowed to wear your Sunday shoes to school?" "Y--yes." "Then why, please?" "Because I hate calf-skin shoes, I hate 'em, I hate 'em. Big ugly clumsy clod-hoppery stogies! I think they are abominable. I'll bet they were the thorn in the flesh Peter talked about--or was it Paul? Anyhow, I can't think of any worse kind of a thorn. I think they are downright wicked. And I won't wear them--unless I have to," she added hastily, noting the military firmness in the General's face. "I am sorry, Zee, since you hate them so terribly. They are not pretty, I know. But if you wear the Sunday ones to school, they wear out so fast, and they are so expensive. And, oh, my dearest, we could never afford it on father's salary, you know that. But I will compromise with you, for I don't like to make you wear things you despise. If you will wear these out, when they are gone, your next pair of school shoes shall be, not patent leather, but much finer and softer than these--oh, much finer." "Oh, that is just ducky of you, General," said Zee gratefully. "But mayn't I wear the others--just this afternoon?"