Susy felt that she was almost worthy of Kathleen’s friendship as she regarded the silver forks.

“You must never part with them, mother,” she said—­until Tom is married.  Then, of course, they will belong to him.”

“You are a good little girl, Susy,” said her mother.  “Of course, there never was a boy like Tom.  It was sweet of him to give up his egg to me last night.”

Having seen that the table was in perfect order, and that the dinner was cooking as well as dinner could in the oven, Mrs. Hopkins went upstairs to put on a lace collar and a neat black silk apron.

Meanwhile Susy had locked herself into her own room.  The crowning moment of her life had arrived.  She had made up her mind that she would wear her new blouse at dinner that day.  Susy’s stockings were coarse, and showed darns here and there; Susy’s shoes were rough, and could not altogether hide the disfiguring patches on the toes of each; Susy’s skirt was dark-blue serge, fairly neat in its way.  Altogether Susy from her waist down was a very ordinary little girl—­the little daughter of poor people; but from her waist up she was resplendent.

“Oh! if I could only show my sweet, sweet little badge,” she thought, “it would make me perfect.  But I daren’t.  The queen commands that it should be hidden, and the queen’s commands must be obeyed.”

Susy slipped into her blouse.  She fastened it; she put a belt round her waist.  She curtsied before her little glass.  She bobbed here; she bobbed there.  She looked at herself front view, then over her shoulder, then, with a morsel of glass, at her back; she surveyed herself, as far as the limited accommodation of her room afforded, from every point of view.  Finally, with flushed cheeks and a very proud expression on her face, she tripped downstairs.  The pale-blue cashmere blouse, with its real lace and embroidered trimmings, might have been worn by any girl, even in the highest station of life.

Mrs. Hopkins was busy in the kitchen.  She called to Susy: 

“Come and hold the vegetable dish, child.  I hear Tom pushing Aunt Church in at the gate; I know he is doing it by the creak of the bath-chair.  There never was a bath-chair that creaked like that.  Hold this while I—­Why, sakes alive, Susy! wherever did you get—­”

“Oh, it’s my new blouse, mother.”

“Your new what?”

“What you see, mother—­my new blouse.  Don’t you admire it?”

Mrs. Hopkins was so stunned that she could not speak for a moment.  Her face, which had been quite florid, turned pale.  She suddenly put up her hand and caught Susy by the arm.

“Oh, mother, don’t!” said the little girl.  “Your hand isn’t clean.  Oh, you have made a stain!  Oh, mother, how could you?”

“Run upstairs at once, child, and take it off.  For the life of you don’t let her see it; she’d never forgive me.  It isn’t fit for you, Susy; it really isn’t.  Wherever did you get it from?  Where did you buy it?”