As fate would have it, the day went placidly by, in spite of Mr. Slawson’s somber prognostications.  No one came to disturb the even tenor of its way.  Then, at eveningfall, while Martha was still absent, there was a gentle rap upon the door, and Claire, anxious to anticipate Ma, made haste to answer it, and saw a stranger standing on the threshold.  It was difficult, at first, to distinguish details in the dusk of the dim hallway, but after a moment she made out the rotund figure of Mr. Langbein.  She could not see his face, but his voice was more than conciliatory.

“Eggscoose me, lady!” he began apologetically.  “I haf for Mis’ Slawson a liddle bresent here.  I tink she like it.  She look so goot-netchered, und I know she iss kind to bum animals.  My vife, her Maltee cat vas having some liddle kittens already, a mont’ ago.  I tink Mis’ Slawson, she lige to hef von off dem pussies, ja?  Annyhow, I bring her von here, und I esk you vill gif it to her mit my tanks, und my kint regarts, und pest vishes und annyting else you tink I could do for her.  You tell Mis’ Slawson I lige her to esk me to do someting whenefer she needs it—­yes?”

“Now what do you think of that?” was Martha’s only comment, when Claire related the incident, and great Sam Slawson shook with laughter till his sides ached, and a fit of coughing set in, and said it was “a caution, but Mother always did have a winning way about her with the men.”

“It’s well I have, or I wouldn’t ‘a’ drew you, Sammy—­an’ you shoor are a trump—­only I wisht you’d get rid o’ that cough—­You had it just about long enough,” Martha responded, half in mockery, half in affectionate earnest.

“An’ now, me lad, leave us be, me an’ Miss Claire.  We has things of importance to talk over.  It’s to-morrow at ten she’s to go see Mrs. Sherman.  Miss Claire, you must be lookin’ your best, for the first minit the madam claps eyes to you, that’ll be the decidin’ minit for you.  Have you everything you need, ready to your hand?  Is all your little laces an’ frills done up fresh an’ tidy, so’s you can choose the becomingest?  Where’s that lace butterfly for your neck, I like so much?  I washed it as careful as could be, a couple o’ weeks ago, but have you wore it since?”

Claire hesitated.  “I think I’ll put on the simplest things I’ve got, Martha,” she replied evasively.  “Just one of my linen shirtwaists, with the stiff collar and cuffs.  No fluffy ruffles at all.”

“But that scrap o’ lace at your throat, ain’t fluffy ruffles.  An’ stiff, starched things don’t kinder become you, Miss Claire.  They ain’t your style.  You don’t wanter look like you been dressed by your worst enemy, do you?  You’re so little an’ dainty, you got to have delicate things to go with you.  Say, just try that butterfly on you now.  I want to see if it’ll do, all right.”

By this time Claire knew Martha well enough to realize it was useless to attempt to temporize or evade.