"If I have to do my language in ink," reflected she, "it'll be all up with my clothes. I'll just have to change after school." The girls were out by half-past three. Fortunately, Miss Rossitor needed no more cows that afternoon, so Bettie was home in good season. All four dressed speedily. Three of them got into their gloves unassisted; but Jean, Marjory and Bettie found plump, impatient Mabel seated on the piano stool with her mother working over one hand, her perspiring father over the other. Several other gloves that had proved too small were scattered on the floor. "You needn't think," said Mabel, greeting her friends with an expressive grimace, "that _I_ ever picked out these lemon-colored frights. Somebody sent 'em for Christmas. None of the pretty ones were big enough--I've tried four pairs." "Neither are these," returned Mrs. Bennett, "and the color certainly is outrageous, but it's Hobson's choice. And just remember, Mabel, if you touch a single door-knob they'll be black before you get there. And don't put your hands in your pockets. And _please_ don't rub them along the fences. There! Mine's on as far as it will go." [Illustration: THE DECIDEDLY DEPRESSED FOUR STARTED DOWN THE STREET.] "I guess you'd better finish this one," said Dr. Bennett, abandoning his task. "I rather tackle a case of smallpox than wrestle with another job like that. She'd look much better in mittens." "Mittens!" snubbed Mabel. "You can't make formal calls in mittens! Now, Somebody, please put me into my jacket and hat, if I'm not to touch anything." The decidedly depressed four, in their Sunday best, started down the street. Mabel's gloves, owing to their brilliant color, were certainly conspicuous, and unconsciously she made them more so by the careful and rigid manner in which she carried them. It was plain that she had them very much on her mind. And when her hat tilted forward over one eye she left it there rather than risk damaging those immaculate lemon-hued gloves. "Take my muff," implored Marjory. "That yellow splendor lights up the whole street." "No, siree," declined Mabel. "If Mrs. Slater wants gloves she's going to have 'em. Do you think I'm going to suffer like this and not have 'em _show_?" So Mabel, a swollen, imprisoned but gorgeous hand dangling at each side, a big navy-blue hat flopping over one eye, strutted muffless down the street. "That's the house," announced Jean, as they turned the corner. "That big one with the covered driveway." "Ugh!" shuddered Marjory, "it gives me chills to think of ringing such a wealthy doorbell. Are the cards safe, Bettie? My! I hope you haven't lost them." "In my pocket in an envelope," assured Bettie. "Can you see any white?" queried Jean, nervously. "I think my top petticoat has broken loose." "It seems all right," said Marjory, stooping to test it with little sharp jerks. "Firm as the Rock of Gibraltar." "It won't be if you pull like that," objected Jean.