"What's this?" asked Gilbert, in the alarm that the name of old Mrs. McKitterick always raised in his breast. "What's going to happen now?" "It's only a pair of mittens, Dr. Allen," said Miss Marjorie. "Mrs. McKitterick knit them, and if they take first prize they are to be given to you." "It was too bad to tell," said Elsie. "No, it wasn't!" cried her brother. "They're to be presented to him at Christmas, and he'll need three months to get resigned. Come along and see them." As they threaded their way toward the hall Malcolm glanced at the other young man significantly. Gilbert understood. "Miss Cameron," he said, "I am all alone in my buggy. Won't you drive home with me?" She glanced up at him with one of her swift, searching looks. "Did Malcolm ask you to relieve him?" she whispered. This strong, grave girl did not often laugh, Gilbert had noticed, but when she was amused her eyes danced. They were sparklingly radiant now. He felt his face growing hot. "I--I----" he began. "Oh, never mind," she cried, and this time she permitted her lips to join her eyes in a smile. "Don't apologize. I know why he did it. He's so transparent, poor lad. I knew last night, when he went over to see you, that he had some tremendous scheme on foot." "But you are not going to punish me for his sins, surely?" said Gilbert, recovering. "If you knew with how much pleasure I grasped the opportunity you would come. Won't you?" "Oh, yes," she answered frankly. "It would be too bad to spoil poor Malc's happy day; and besides," she added, with a return of her grave dignity, "I am sure I shall enjoy the drive, thank you." Gilbert felt strangely grateful. The girl always made him feel as though she were immeasurably above him. "Because she really is, I suppose," he concluded, as he watched her, and thought of all she was sacrificing, silently, for the careless, happy boy walking so gaily ahead. Yes, she was very noble, he confessed. And then he sighed, he did not know why. They squeezed their way into the building and passed slowly around. The long tables were piled with every sort of work that a woman's needle might encompass, and while the two girls examined each exhibit minutely, going into raptures over this or that, the two young men gazed vacantly about in weary bewilderment. There were doilies and tidies and pillow-covers of all patterns, crocheted lace and knitted lace and lace made every other way. There was painting on china and satin and velvet and silk and every other known fabric, and the walls were hung with homespun blankets, quilts and floor rugs.