Never had Cynthia in her life been seated at a table so beautiful.  The tumblers of ruby and amber glass, the plates with their delicate fruit and flower decoration, every plate a picture, the bouquet in the centre reflected in a beautiful little round mirror, the pretty silver tubs filled with broken ice, the shining knives and forks, and the dainty tea equipage, were so charming that she felt like a princess in an enchanted castle.  But she expressed no surprise.  She behaved quietly, made no mistakes, used her knife and fork like a little lady, and was as unconscious of herself and her looks as the carnation pink is of its color and shape.

Mrs. Dean meditated.  She did not quite like to ask this child to wear a borrowed dress, and she felt that Florrie needed to take a lesson in politeness.  Drawing the latter aside, she said, “My darling, I am sorry you should treat my little friend rudely; you have hardly spoken to her.”

“I can’t help it, mamma.  She isn’t one of the set we go with.  A little common thing like that!  See what shoes she has on.  And her hands are so red and coarse!  They look as if she washed dishes for a living.”

“Something very like it is the case, I’m afraid, Florrie dear.  I fear she has a very dull time at home.  But the child is a little lady.  I shall feel very much ashamed if she is more a lady than my own daughters.  See, Effie has made friends with her.”

“And so will I,” said Florrie.  “Forgive me, mamma, for being so silly.”  And the three girls had a pleasant chat before the visitors came, and grew so confidential that Cynthia told Effie and Florrie about the one great shadow of her life—­the mortgage which made her papa so unhappy, and was such a worry to poor Aunt Kate.  She didn’t know what it was; it seemed to her like some dreadful ogre always in the background ready to pounce on the little home.  Neither Effie nor Florrie knew, but they agreed with her that it must be something horrid, and Effie promised to ask her own papa, who knew everything, all about it.

“Depend upon it, Cynthia,” said Effie, “if papa can do anything to help you, he will.  There’s nobody like papa in the whole world.”

By and by the company began to arrive, and the wide grounds were gay with children in dainty summer costumes and bright silken sashes.  Musicians were stationed in an arbor, and their instruments sent forth tripping waltzes and polkas, and the children danced, looking like fairies as they floated over the velvet grass.  When the beautiful old Virginia reel was announced, even Cynthia was led out, Mr. Dean himself, a grand gentleman with stately manners and a long brown beard, showing her the steps.  Cynthia felt as if she had been dancing with the President.  Cinderella at the ball was not less delighted, and this little Cinderella, too, had a misgiving now and then about to-morrow, when she must go home to the housework and the boarders and the gathering of beans for dinner.  Yet that should not spoil the present pleasure.  Cynthia had never studied philosophy, but she knew enough not to fret foolishly about a trouble in the future when something agreeable was going on now.