The governess felt that the dress was eccentric, and yet that Lynette had a sentimental conviction that carried her cause through. Miss Vance happened to be in a tactless mood, and appealed to Gertrude Canterton, and to Gertrude the idea of Lynette going into mourning because a certain young woman had lost her mother was whimsical and absurd. “Lynette, go and change that dress immediately!” It was then that Canterton came out in his child. She was serenely and demurely determined. “I must wear it, mother!” “You will do nothing of the kind. The skirt is perfectly indecent.” “Why?” “Your—your knees are showing.” “I am not ashamed of my knees.” “Lynette, don’t argue! Understand that I will be obeyed. Go and change that dress!” “I am very sorry, mother, but I can’t. You don’t know what great deep friends me and Miss Eve are.” Neither ridicule nor fussy attempts at intimidation had any effect. There was something in the child’s eyes and manner that forbade physical coercion. She was sure in her sentiment, standing out for some ideal of sympathy that was fine and convincing to herself. Lynette appealed to her father, and to her father the case was carried. He sided with Lynette, but not in Lynette’s hearing. “What on earth is there to object to, Gertrude?” “It is quite absurd, the child wanting to go into mourning because old Mrs. Carfax is dead.” “Children have a way of being absurd, and very often the gods are absurd with them. The child shall have a black frock.” Gertrude twitched her shoulders, and refused to be responsible for Canterton’s methods. “You are spoiling that child. I know it is quite useless for me to suggest anything.” “You are not much of a child yourself, Gertrude. I am. That makes a difference.” Canterton had his car out that afternoon and drove twenty miles to Reading, with Lynette on the seat beside him. He knew, better than any woman, what suited the child, so Lynette had a black frock and a little Quaker bonnet to wear for that other child, Mrs. Carfax, who was dead. Within a week Eve was back at Fernhill, painting masses of hollyhocks and sweet peas, with giant sunflowers and purple-spiked buddlea for a background. Perhaps nothing had touched her more than Lynette’s black frock and the impulsive sympathy that had suggested it. “I’m so sorry, Miss Eve, dear. I do love you ever so much more now.” And Eve had never been nearer tears, with Lynette snuggling up to her, one arm round her neck, and her warm breath on Eve’s cheek. It was holiday time, and Miss Vance’s authority was reduced to the supervision of country walks, and the giving of a daily piano lesson. Punch, the terrier, accompanied them on their walks, and Miss Vance hated the dog, feeling herself responsible for Punch’s improprieties. Her month’s holiday began in a few days, and Lynette had her eyes on five weeks of unblemished liberty. “Vancie goes on Friday. Isn’t it grand!” “But you ought not to be so glad, dear.”