How her eyes sparkled and her color came and went when Mrs. Dean told her to step in and seat herself, then, following, took the reins, while Bonny Bess, the sagacious pony, who knew every tone of his mistress’ voice, trotted merrily off!

Having secured her little guest, Mrs. Dean thought she would give her as much pleasure as she could.  So they took a charming drive before pony’s head was turned to the village.  The phaeton glided swiftly over smooth, hard roads, between rich fields of corn, over a long bridge, and at last rolled into Main Street, where Mrs. Dean made so many purchases that the vehicle was soon quite crowded with packages and bundles.

“Now for home, my little one,” said the lady, turning; and away they flew over hill and hollow till they reached the broad, wide open gates of the place known to everybody as Fernbrake, and skimming gaily down the long flower-bordered avenue, they stopped at the door of the beautiful house.  The verandas looked inviting with their easy chairs and rockers, but no one was sitting there, so Cynthia followed her hostess shyly up the wide stairway, into a cool, airy room with white drapery at the windows, an upright piano standing open, and books everywhere, showing the taste of its occupants.  Oh, those books!  Cynthia’s few story-books had been read until she knew them by heart.  Though in these days it was seldom she was allowed to sit with a book in her hand, a book-loving child always manages somehow to secure a little space for the coveted pleasure.  And here were shelves just overflowing with dainty, gaily covered volumes, and low cases crowded, and books lying about on window-seats and lounges.

Mrs. Dean observed the hungry, eager gaze, and taking off the wide-brimmed hat with its white ribbon bow and ends, she seated the little girl comfortably, and put a story into her hands, telling her to amuse herself until Effie and Florence should come.

A half-hour sped by, and then, answering the summons of a bell in the distance, the two daughters of the house appeared, and Cynthia was asked to go with them to luncheon.

Mrs. Dean was a little worried about Cynthia’s dress, and was revolving in her mind whether she might not make her look more like the other children by lending her for the occasion a white dress of Florrie’s, when, to her regret, she observed that Florrie’s eyes were resting very scornfully on the faded green delaine and the stout coarse shoes.

Now if there is anything vulgar and unpardonable, it is this, children—­that, being a hostess, you are ashamed of anything belonging to a guest.  From the moment a guest enters your door he or she is sacred, and no true lady or gentlemen ever criticises, much less apologizes for, the dress of a visitor.  Mrs. Dean was sorry to observe the sneer on Florrie’s usually sweet face, and glancing from it to Cynthia’s, she was struck with the contrast.