cashmere dressing-gown, relic of former splendors,” she added, laughing. “You shall do up her fine hair, and Master George shall see a creature very different from that poor, forlorn girl who cried to him in vain for help.” “Was there ever a woman in this world,” said the doctor, laughing, “who was not a match-maker at heart?” “He don’t deserve her,” said Susie, warmly. “While I am arranging her hair, I’ll give her a lesson in the art of receiving penitent lovers.” “Well, Min,” said the doctor to the “long-haired angel,” as he sometimes called her, “between these two match-makers, I shouldn’t wonder if we had a wedding. What do you think?” Min climbed up on the doctor’s knees while giving unqualified assent to the proposition of a wedding; her idea of it, as further conversation with her showed, being a “frosted cake with two birds on it.” This information Min had some way gathered from her observations at the baker’s. Whether Susie gave the lesson she proposed on the art of receiving penitent lovers or not, it is certain that, after the meeting of Annie and George, the course of love “ran smooth,” and the reappearance of George thereafter on Sunday nights, was characterized by a very exemplary regularity. Annie recovered safely from the shock to her system, and proved a “blessing in disguise,” as Clara predicted. It was in the busiest part of the season of winter flowers, and as Annie was quick to learn, she proved a great help. As the poor girl’s wardrobe, when she arrived, was of the paradisaic order, everything had to be supplied mostly from Clara’s, as Susie was much shorter of stature than Annie; and as Clara was rather of the heroic type of woman, there was some merriment over the fit of her old dresses on the thin form of Annie. Annie, however, was pleased with everything. To be among the refined, cultivated, gentle people, that heretofore she had met only in books, to be respected and loved by them, to be able to please those about her, and have no fault ever found with her efforts to do so, and then to be able to see George, to love him without shame or concealment—all this was so different from the life she had known, that at times she feared it could not be real; that it was a heavenly dream, out of which sometime she might wake to the cold, hard world, in which she had struggled and suffered. No wonder the poor girl’s heart went out to her new friends, in a kind of affection bordering upon worship. One fear alone remained, and this she mentioned to her friends: that her father might find out where she was and force her to return, as she was under age. To avoid this, the doctor had prevented her real name from getting into the local papers, in the items about the attempted suicide; and as Annie was anxious to let her mother know that she was well, and above all things to return the two dollars she had purloined, she gave her letter to Clara, who enclosed the money, and had the letter posted in Boston.