“Here, Miss Bree,—­you would like a piece of the country, I imagine, this morning!  I couldn’t have come in without it.”

The voice rang blithe and bright into the room where Bel sat, basting machine work; the eyes went after the voice.

The light from the east window was full upon the shining hair, the young, unworn outlines, the fresh, pure color of the skin.  Few city beauties could bear such morning light as that.  Nothing but the morning in the face can meet it.

Morris Hewland lifted his hat, and bowed toward the young girl, silently.  Then he passed on, up to his room.  Bel heard his step, back and forth, overhead.

The tuberoses were put into a clear, plain tumbler.  Bel would not have them in the broken vase; she would not have them in a blue vase, at all.  She laid a white napkin over the red of the tablecloth, and set them on it.  The perfume rose from them and spread all through the room.

“I am so glad we have work at home to-day,” said Bel.

There had been nothing but little things like these; out into Bel’s head, as she and Aunt Blin carried home the tea-blush silk, and laid it by with care in its white box upon the sofa-end, came that little wish, with a spring and a heart-beat,—­“If she might have it on for a minute, and if in that minute he might happen to come by!”

She did not think she was planning for it; but when on the Tuesday evening the step went down the stairs at eight o’clock, while they sat busily working, each at a sleeve, by the drop-light over the white-covered table, a little involuntary calculation ran through her thoughts.

“He always comes back by eleven.  We shall have two hours’ work—­or more,—­on this, if we don’t hurry; and it’s miserable to hurry!”

They stitched on, comfortably enough; yet the sleeves were finished sooner than she expected.  Before nine o’clock, Aunt Blin was sewing them in.  Then Bel wanted a drink of water; then they could not both get at the waist together; there was no need.

“I’ll do it,” said Bel, out of her conscience, with a jump of fright as she said it, lest Aunt Blin should take her at her word, and begin gauging and plaiting the skirt.

“No, you rest.  I shall want you by and by, for a figure.”

“May I have it all on?” says Bel eagerly.  “Do, Auntie!  I should just like to be in such a dress once—­a minute!”

“I don’t see any reason why not. You couldn’t do any hurt to it, if ’twas made for a queen,” responded Aunt Blin.

“I’ll do up my hair on the top of my head,” said Bel.

And forthwith, at the far end of the room, away from the delicate robe and its scattered material, she got out her combs and brushes, and let down her gleaming brown hair.