* * * * *

“Well?” They were safely in the upstairs room now and the door was closed.

“I’ve got it.  It came on the afternoon mail.  I went down to the post office specially.  I knew you kind of counted on it for to-morrow.”

With the glee of a child playing conspirator Miss Milligan dived into the recesses of the reticule she carried.  “Here it is.  No, that’s peppermints.  But it’s here somewhere—­”

“Oh, hurry!” Mary almost snatched the packet from the friendly hand.  At sight of it she turned deathly white and began to shake as she had shaken that day in the fitting-room.  But this time she recovered quickly, almost before Miss Milligan had noticed it.

“Thank you so much,” she said.  With the last effort of her self-control she forced herself to place the packet upon the dresser.  She wanted to snatch at it to tear it open, to scream with the relief of the tablets in her hand, but she did none of these things.  Instead she thanked Miss Milligan again and proceeded to talk of other things, anything that would do to fill up the short time necessary to conceal the real purpose of the visit so that Esther and Miss Philps would not suspect—­never for a moment suspect!

“Do you think we really need try on the dress?” asked the conscientious Miss Milligan.

Mrs. Coombe thought not.  It was quite all right, she felt sure of that.  And really she was a little tired.  It had been a trying day.  She moistened her lips and tried to smile, keeping her eyes well away from the tempting heaven in the little pasteboard box.  Would the woman never go!

Fortunately Miss Milligan was a lady who prided herself upon her good sense and also upon her proper pride.  She always knew, she declared, when she was not wanted, and, strange as it may seem, it began to dawn upon her that this was one of those rare occasions.  Mrs. Coombe was very pleasant, of course, but Miss Milligan missed something, a certain cordiality which might have tempted her to prolong her stay.  She was not offended, for if she considered that her self-denying journeys to the post office were meeting with less than their just deserts, she was not a woman to insist upon gratitude where gratitude was not freely given.  She stayed therefore no longer than the fiction of dress-fitting required and then with a somewhat strained “good night” passed down the stairs and out of the house.

Mary waited, rigid as a statue, until she heard the front gate close, then, the last defence down, she sprang to the dressing table—­tearing off the paper from the package as a puppy dog might tear the covering from a bone.  A glass of water stood ready.  Her shaking hands reached for it, counted the number of tablets and slipped them in.  Then, with a long breath of relief, the tension relaxed.  She raised her eyes, triumphing eyes, to the mirror and saw—­Aunt Amy watching her from the doorway.