The sun rolled up from the east without a cloud, its light, a dusky red, tinging all the earth with a rosy hue—a sure harbinger of a hot, dry day, and just what Star of all things most desired. “Why?” does curiosity question. Because her one best dress for summer had been a simple white lawn, which her own fair hands had fashioned in the most dainty manner, and she had nothing else really pretty to wear. “If I cannot have embroideries and laces, I can at least have ruffles and tucks, for they cost nothing but time and patience,” she had said to Miss Baker, when the question “how it should be trimmed” came up for discussion; and ruffled and tucked it was in the most artistic manner. She ran down stairs to practice for an hour, after which she went to her breakfast, and confided to Mrs. Blunt the fact that “she and Uncle Jacob” were going to have a holiday—her throbbing pulses warned her not to mention the third member of the party, lest she should betray more than she cared to—and that good woman remarked, with characteristic emphasis, that “if she wasn’t glad of it, she was much mistaken, and hoped she’d have the best time in the world; she’d certainly had _precious few_ good times since she came there.” This duty over—for she did not feel right to be gone the whole day without telling some member of the family of her intention—she returned to her room to give her attention to that, for once with her, very important subject for consideration—her toilet. She arranged her shining hair with great care. It was her glory, and Archibald Sherbrooke had made it appear such in that picture which he had shown her yesterday, and which she now remembered with crimson cheeks and glowing eyes, as she brushed those shining strands until they gleamed like burnished gold. She then wove it into one massive braid, as she had worn it that day which neither of them would ever forget, and tied it a little way from the end with a fresh, delicate blue ribbon. This done, she donned the spotless white dress, with a broad belt of blue and its great bow on one side, and fastened a simple knot of the same at her throat, but heaving a regretful sigh as she thought of her precious cameo, and wished she could have had it to wear to-day. Then she tied a pretty chip hat, with its mull trimmings and bunch of forget-me-nots, over her golden head, and blushed rosy red at the vision of loveliness that looked out at her from her small mirror. Taking her roll of music, and throwing a fleecy shawl over her arm, she ran down stairs with a light, springing step, intending to go to the lodge for a word with Mr. Rosevelt before she went to the station. “Where are you going, miss, rigged out in that style?” was the rude query that saluted her ears as she came out upon the veranda and stopped a moment to fasten her gloves. Looking up, she saw Josephine sitting at one end of the porch, and half hidden by the luxuriant growth of vines climbing the trellis.