They were all at table when Great-aunt Charlotte finally came down. She entered with a surprisingly quick light step. To-night she looked younger than her sister in spite of ten years' seniority. Great-aunt Charlotte was undeniably dressy--a late phase. At the age of seventy she had announced her intention of getting no more new dresses. She had, she said, a closet full of black silks and more serviceable cloth dresses collected during the last ten or more years. "We Thrifts," she said, "aren't long livers. I'll make what I've got do." The black silks and mohairs had stood the years bravely, but on Aunt Charlotte's seventy-fifth birthday even the mohairs, most durable of fabrics, began to protest. The dull silks became shiny; the shiny mohairs grew dull. Cracks and splits showed in the hems and seams and folds of the taffetas. Great-aunt Charlotte at three-score ten and five had looked them over, sniffed, and had cast them off as an embryo butterfly casts off its chrysalis. She took a new lease on life, ordered a complete set of dresses that included a figured foulard, sent her ancient and massive pieces of family jewelry to be cleaned, and went shopping with Lottie for a hat instead of the bonnet to which she had so long clung. She looked quite the grande dame as she entered the dining room now, in one of the more frivolous black silks, her white hair crimped, a great old-fashioned cabachon gold and diamond brooch fastening the lace at her breast, a band of black velvet ribbon about her neck, her eyes brightly interested beneath the strongly marked black brows. Belle came over and dutifully kissed one withered old cheek. She and Aunt Charlotte had never been close. Henry patted her shoulder as he pulled out her chair. Charley gave her a quick hug to which Great-aunt Charlotte said, "Ouch!"--but smiled. "Dear me, I haven't kept you waiting!" "You know you have," retorted Mrs. Carrie Payson; and dipped her spoon in the plate of steaming golden fragrant soup before her. Whereupon Great-aunt Charlotte winked at Henry Kemp. The Friday night dinner was always a good meal, though what is known as "plain." Soup, roast, a vegetable, salad, dessert. "Well," said Mrs. Carrie Payson, "and how've you all been? I suppose I'd never see you if it weren't for Friday nights." Charley looked up quickly. "Oh, Gran, I'm sorry but I shan't be able to come to dinner any more on Fridays." "Why not?" "My dancing class." Mrs. Payson laid down her spoon and sat back, terribly composed. "Dancing class! You can change your dancing class to some other night, I suppose? You know very well this is the only night possible for the family. Hulda's out Thursdays; your father and mother play bridge on Wednesdays; Lottie----" "Yes, I know. But there's no other night."