"But we can, and we will," Bessie declared. She was a very practical person in matters connected with millinery and dressmaking, and in a minute had planned the slight alterations and additional furbishings required for their party frocks. Black ribbons instead of blue run in the lace of the bodices. Deleah's skirt would be short, but who would see that if Deleah were sitting down? Deleah drooped as she listened, leaving the tea in her cup and the bread-and-butter untouched on her plate. "Elbows off the table, Deda," Franky reminded her, who was frequently commanded to remove his own. Deleah took no heed. She sat with brow leaning upon the hand which screened her face, looking back upon that evening before the shadow of misfortune and disgrace had touched them all; when she had worn her new white silk frock, and papa had played the tambourine. Bessie had gone, leaving her tea also, untasted; hurrying away to Emily, who would help her to pull off the forget-me-nots from her frock, and to substitute the black ribbon which would be more decorous. Bessie's pale, full cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes shone. "Black will look better than blue, even--although that _was_ your colour--against your white skin," Emily encouraged her. Mr. Gibbon had made himself a neat sandwich of water-cress and thin bread-and-butter. He paused in the act of daintily sprinkling it with salt pinched in finger and thumb, and looked at Deleah across the table, her hand hiding her face. So long he looked at her, so long she remained unconscious of him, that Franky ventured in their preoccupation to help himself to a third piece of cake, his allowance being two. "Miss Deleah, if you don't want to go to this concert to-night, why go?" at length the boarder ventured to ask. Deleah dropped the shielding hand; she had for the moment forgotten the presence of Mr. Charles Gibbon. "Bessie wants to go. Of course, I must go with her," she said. "But why 'of course,' if you don't wish? Whoever sent those tickets--" "Mr. Boult sent them." "Well, then, Mr. Boult sent them to make you happy; not unhappier." "I know. I am really quite grateful, Mr. Gibbon. It was only those dresses. We wore them at a dance at our house--the evening before--everything. I can't think how Bessie can! But she does not feel things as I do. She never did feel like--dying--of pity--and sorrow--as I did." She lifted her cup to her lips to hide the fact that tears were rolling down her face. Mr. Gibbon sighed heavily. He pushed his own cup away from him as a signal perhaps that for him also the tea was spoilt. "But why need you go in that particular frock, Miss Deleah?" "I haven't another." "The one you have on." "This one? Oh!"