The next morning dawned clear and bright, and Miss Pickett rose even earlier than usual. She found it most difficult to decide which of her dresses would be best to wear. Summer was still so young that the day had all the freshness of spring, but when the two friends walked away together along the shady street, with a chorus of golden robins singing high overhead in the elms, Miss Pickett decided that she had made a wise choice of her second-best black silk gown, which she had just turned again and freshened. It was neither too warm for the season nor too cool, nor did it look overdressed. She wore her large cameo pin, and this, with a long watch-chain, gave an air of proper mural decoration. She was a straight, flat little person, as if, when not in use, she kept herself, silk dress and all, between the leaves of a book. She carried a noticeable parasol with a fringe, and a small shawl, with a pretty border, neatly folded over her left arm. Mrs. Flagg always dressed in black cashmere, and looked, to hasty observers, much the same one day as another; but her companion recognized the fact that this was the best black cashmere of all, and for a moment quailed at the thought that Mrs. Flagg was paying such extreme deference to their prospective hostess. The visit turned for a moment into an unexpectedly solemn formality, and pleasure seemed to wane before Cynthia Pickett’s eyes, yet with great courage she never slackened a single step. Mrs. Flagg carried a somewhat worn black leather handbag, which Miss Pickett regretted; it did not give the visit that casual and unpremeditated air which she felt to be more elegant. “Sha’n’t I carry your bag for you?” she asked timidly. Mrs. Flagg was the older and more important person. “Oh, dear me, no,” answered Mrs. Flagg. “My pocket’s so remote, in case I should desire to sneeze or anything, that I thought ’twould be convenient for carrying my handkerchief and pocket-book; an’ then I just tucked in a couple o’ glasses o’ my crabapple jelly for Mis’ Timms. She used to be a great hand for preserves of every sort, an’ I thought ’twould be a kind of an attention, an’ give rise to conversation. I know she used to make excellent drop-cakes when we was both residin’ to Longport; folks used to say she never would give the right receipt, but if I get a real good chance, I mean to ask her. Or why can’t you, if I start talkin’ about receipts—why can’t you say, sort of innocent, that I have always spoken frequently of her drop-cakes, an’ ask for the rule? She would be very sensible to the compliment, and could pass it off if she didn’t feel to indulge us. There, I do so wish you would!” “Yes, ’m,” said Miss Pickett doubtfully; “I’ll try to make the opportunity. I’m very partial to drop-cakes. Was they flour or rye, Mis’ Flagg?” “They was flour, dear,” replied Mrs. Flagg approvingly; “crisp an’ light as any you ever see.”