"Then wear something of your own," she said stanchly. "It doesn't matter what we wear, so long as we look nice." Mercurial Priscilla was already feeling the new note in the air. Elliott wouldn't talk so, would she, if Sidney really were not going to get well? And yet there was Gertrude, who didn't seem to feel cheered up a bit. Pris's little heart was torn. Elliott tried one last argument. "I think Mother Jess would like to have us do it for Father Bob and the boys' sake--to help keep up their courage." Priscilla bounced out of the rocker. "Will it help keep up their courage for us to wear our pretty clothes?" "I had a notion it might." "Let's do it, Trudy. I--I think I feel better already." Gertrude sat up on the horsehair sofa. "Maybe Mother would like us to." "I'm sure she'd like us to keep on hoping," said Elliott earnestly. "And it doesn't matter what we do, so long as we do something to show that's the way we've made up our minds to feel. If you can think of any better way to show it than by dressing up, Trudy--" "No," said Gertrude. "But I think I'll wear my own clothes to-day, Elliott. Thank you, just the same. Some day, if Sid--I mean some day I'll love to try on your blue dress, if you will let me." Three girls, as pretty and chic and trim as nature and the contents of their closets could make them, sat down to supper that night. It was not a jolly meal, but the girls set the pace, and every one did his best to be cheerful and brave. Half-way through supper Stannard laid down his fork to ask a question. "What's happened to your hair, Trudy?" "Elliott did it for me. Do you like it?" Stannard nodded. "Good work!" Father Bob, his attention aroused, inspected the three with new interest in his sober eyes. He said nothing then, but after supper his hand fell on Elliott's shoulder approvingly. "Well done, little girl! That's the right way. Face the music with your chin up." Elliott felt exactly as though some one had stiffened her spine. The least little doubt had been creeping into her mind lest what she had done had been heartless. Father Bob's words put that qualm at rest. And, of course, good news would come from Sidney in the morning. But courage has a way of ebbing in spite of one. It was dark and very cold when a forlorn little figure appeared beside Elliott's bed. "I can't go to sleep. Trudy's asleep. I can hear her. I think I am going to cry again." Elliott sat up. What should she do? What would Aunt Jessica do? "Come in here and cry on me." Priscilla climbed in between the sheets and Elliott put both arms around the little girl. Priscilla snuggled close. "I tried to think--the way you said, but I can't. _Is_ Sidney--" sniffle--"going to die--" sniffle--"like Ted Gordon?" "No," said Elliott, who a minute ago had been afraid of the very same thing. "No, I am perfectly positive he is going to get well." Just saying the words seemed to help, somehow.