As the time passed and she heard the monotonous ticking of the clock on the mantel, she was seized with a kind of panic. She dreaded Mr. Carter’s arrival. If he came first, she might break down and tell him, and she was afraid to tell him. She wanted Daniel. Unconsciously, in her hour of need, she always turned to Daniel now. William had been her mainstay, but it was obvious that William could not be her mainstay any longer. The old saw about a son marrying a wife held good in his case. She waited, and the clock ticked tumultuously, as clocks do when you wait. She began to rock violently again, and she nearly upset herself by a tremendous start when the door finally opened. She thought it was Mr. Carter, but it was only Emily with some books under her arm. Emily came to the door of the library and looked in. She had long ago obeyed her father’s order and washed her face. It was guiltless even of becoming makeup, but she had an unnatural look to her mother for all that. “What’s the matter, mama?” she asked. “Where’s Fanchon? Has Leigh come in?” Mrs. Carter shook her head. She had stopped rocking and was staring at her daughter. Emily saw it and retreated. “I think I’ll go up-stairs,” she said hurriedly. “I passed the exams, mama. Mr. Brinsted says I can go to high school in September.” A gleam of momentary pleasure shot across Mrs. Carter’s worried face, but she did not withdraw her fixed gaze. “Emmy, you come here,” she said suddenly. “I want to look at your dress.” Emily backed. “Oh, I want to go up-stairs, mama. I’m hot and tired. Mr. Brinsted’s so prosy. Sallie Payson says--” Mrs. Carter rose and made a dive at the hem of her daughter’s skirt. “Well, I declare!” she exclaimed. “I couldn’t think what made it hang like that! You’ve been taking it in on every seam to make it narrower.” Emily pulled away, blushing. “It was just horrid--all out of style, mama!” she cried. “I hate to--to look like a frump!” Mrs. Carter straightened up from her consideration of the skirt. “Where did you get those striped silk stockings, Emily Carter?” Emily, backing toward the door, looked sullen. “Dan gave me the money,” she answered shortly. “I wanted something like other girls.” “I never saw such awful stockings in my life!” replied her mother. “Your legs look like barbers’ poles. You take them off, or I’ll have to tell your father.” Emily grew tearful. “I--I think you’re real mean, mama. I hate to be a frump!” “Who called you a frump?” her mother asked severely. “N-no one--but Fanchon says the people here are all provincials and frumps--all of them!” stormed Emily. “And I think we’re awful frumps ourselves!” Mrs. Carter gazed at her in a dazed way; then she retreated to her rocking-chair. “Emily, you go up-stairs and rip those inside bastes out of that skirt. It looks frightful; it hangs all up and down in waves! And listen--” Emily, still sniffing violently, was half-way to the stairs.