“Now,” said Cornelia, putting the biscuits into the oven and looking at the clock, “it’s time to go upstairs and rest a bit and get dressed. There’s plenty of hot water, and Harry had better take his bath first while you lie down, Louie. Yes, I want you to rest on the bed at least ten minutes with your eyes shut. It will make a big difference. You are so excited you don’t even know you’re tired, and you’ve got a long evening before you. You want to be rested enough to enjoy it. Oh, yes, I’m coming up to rest, too, just as soon as I get the water on for the potatoes, and spinach. Then we’ll rest together; and, when Harry gets his bath, we’ll get up and begin to dress. Harry, you must polish your shoes and make them look fine. I’m glad you had your hair cut yesterday. It looks very nice. Now let’s go upstairs.” But a sudden gloom had fallen over the face of Louise. In all the planning, strange to say, it had never once occurred to her to think what she herself would wear. Now the old, perplexing problem of the ages swept down upon her darkly. “But, Cornie, what shall I put on?” She looked down at her blue checked gingham, and thought of the faded blue challis that had been her best all winter, washed and let down, and made to do because there was no money to buy anything else. It had a great three-cornered tear where it caught on the key of the door last Sunday night, forgotten until now. Cornelia seemed not to notice her dismay. “I laid your things out on a chair up in our room,” she said pleasantly. “Everything is ready.” “But I—there’s a—at least, don’t you think I better wash out my collar? It’s just awful dirty!” “Everything’s all right dear,” said her sister, bending over to look at the oven flame and be sure it was just high enough to bake the biscuits the right shade of brown. “Run up, and you’ll see.” Louise turned and walked slowly up the stairs revolving the possibility of her sister’s having mended the tear and washed the collar, and resolving not to be disappointed if she had done neither. “She had a lot to do this morning, and couldn’t, of course; and I wouldn’t want her to. I’ll hurry and do it myself,” said the loyal little soul. Then she entered the bedroom and stood entranced. “O Harry, Harry! Come quick and see!” she cried to the boy, who was pattering downstairs barefoot in his bath robe with a bunch of clean garments under his arm. “She’s made over her beautiful pink organdie with the lace on it for me! Isn’t she _dear_? Isn’t it a darling? And the little black velvet bows! And there’s a white apron with lace ruffles for me to wait on the table in, and some of her own white silk stockings, and look at the ducky rosettes on my old pumps! They look like new! Oh! Isn’t she the darlingest sister in the world?”