square-toed shoes, and satin ribbon tying his white wig.  Rachael, separately tempted by the thought of Dutch wooden shoes and of the always delightful hoop skirts, eventually abandoned both because it was not possible historically to connect either costume with the one upon which Warren had decided.  She eventually determined to be the most picturesque of Indian maidens, with brown silk stockings disappearing into moccasins, exquisite beadwork upon her fringed and slashed skirt, feathers in her loosened hair, and a small but matchless tiger skin, strapped closely across her back, to lend a touch of distinction to the costume.

On the Monday evening before the dance she tried on her regalia and appeared before her husband and three or four waiting dinner guests, so exquisite a vision of glowing and radiant beauty that their admiration was almost a little awed.  Her cheeks were crimson between her loosened rich braids of hair; her eyes shone deeply blue, and the fantastic costume, with its fluttering strips of leather and richly colored wampum, gave an extraordinary quality of youth and almost of frailty to her whole aspect.

“The woman just sent this home.  I couldn’t resist showing you!” said Rachael, in a shower of compliments.  “Isn’t my tiger a darling?  Warren went six hundred and seventy-two places to catch him.  Of course there never was a stripey tiger like this in North America but what care I?  I’m only a poor little redskin; a trifling inconsistency like that doesn’t worry me!”

“Me taky you my wikiup-huh!” said Frank Whittaker invitingly.  “You my squaw?”

“Come here, Hattie Fishboy,” said her husband, catching her by the arm.  His face showed no more than an amused indulgence to her caprice, but Rachael knew he was pleased.  “Well, when you first planned this outfit I thought it was going to be an awful mess,” said he, turning her slowly about.  “But it isn’t so bad!”

“Isn’t so bad!” Mrs. Bowditch said scornfully; “it’s the loveliest thing I ever saw.  I’ll tell you what, Rachael, if you come down to Easthampton this summer we’ll have a play, and you can be an Indian—­”

“I’d love it,” Rachael said, and making a deep bow before her husband she added:  “I’ll be Squaw-Afraid-of-Her-Man!”

She heard them laughing as she ran upstairs to change to a more conventional dress.

“Etta,” said she, consigning the Indian costume to her maid, “I’m too happy to live!”

Etta, one of those homely, conscientious women who extract in some mysterious way an actual pride and pleasure from the beauty of the women whom they serve, smiled faintly and dully.

“The weather’s getting real nice now,” she submitted, as one who will not discourage a worthy emotion.