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No, the thing was impossible. Of course, the maid invented it.

“You won’t have much more trouble, Emily,” said Aunt Ruth on her return home. “Polly and Jim have got their craws full. When people see you at the bazaar they’ll soon realise what way the wind blows and trim their sails accordingly. I’ve a few things to say to some other folks when opportunity offers. Matters have come to a pretty pass if decent boys and girls can’t escape freezing to death without being slandered for it. Don’t you give this thing another thought, Emily. Remember, you've got a family behind you.”

Emily went to her glass when Aunt Ruth had gone downstairs. She tilted it at the proper angle and smiled at Emily-in-the-Glass—smiled slowly, provocatively, alluringly.

“I wonder where I put my Jimmy-book,” thought Emily. “I must add a few more touches to my sketch of Aunt Ruth.”

WHEN Shrewsbury people discovered that Mrs. Dutton was backing her niece, the flame of gossip that had swept over the town died down in an incredibly short time. Mrs. Dutton gave more to the various funds of St. John’s Church than any other member—it was a Murray tradition to support your church becomingly. Mrs. Dutton had lent money to half the business men in town—she held Nat Tolliver’s note for an amount that kept him wakeful o’ nights. Mrs. Datton had a disconcerting knowledge of family skeletons—to which she had no delicacy in referring. Therefore, Mrs. Dutton was a person to be kept in good humour, and if people had made the mistake of supposing that because she was very strict with her niece, it was safe to snub that niece, why, the