Under the Country Sky | Page 9

guess
at. You're going to weave rugs for your life, and enjoy Jimps Stuart as
you always have, and there's not going to be a whimper out of you from
this hour, no matter what happens--or doesn't happen. Do you hear?
Well, then--attention! Head up, shoulders back, heart steady; forward,
march!"
Two hours later, when, in the absence of the new inmate, Georgiana

went into his room to put it in order for the day, she found it impossible
not to note the character of his belongings. They were few and simple
enough, but in every detail they betrayed a fastidious taste. And among
the articles in ebony and leather which lay upon the linen cover of the
old bureau stood one which held her fascinated attention. It was a
framed photograph of a young and very lovely woman in evening dress,
and the face which smiled over the perfect shoulder was looking
straight out at her.
Georgiana stared back. "Who are you?" she whispered. "I might have
known you would be here!"
"And who, please, are you?" the picture seemed to query lightly,
smiling in return for the other's frown. "As for me, don't you see plainly?
I belong to him. Else why should he have me here? You see I'm the
only one he cared to bring. Doesn't that speak for itself?"
"Of course it does," agreed Georgiana; then stoutly: "And why should I
care? Of course I don't care. To care would be--absurd!"
CHAPTER III
A SEMI-ANNUAL OCCURRENCE
"Father Davy, the 'Semi-Annual' has come!" Georgiana, tugging with
both strong young arms, hauled the big express package into the
living-room of the old manse, and shut the door with a bang. Breathing
rapidly from her exertions, her cheeks warmly flushed, her dark eyes
glowing, she stood over the package, looking at her father with a
curious sort of smile not wholly compounded of joy and satisfaction.
"That is very good," said Father Davy in his pleasant voice; "and very
opportune. It was but yesterday, it seems to me, that I heard daughter
declaring that she was 'Oh, so shabby!'"
"Yes, yes--but what do you wager there is there?" questioned
Georgiana. "I can tell you before I take the cover off. Three evening
gowns, frivolous and impossible for a little town like this; one draggled

lingerie frock, two evening coats, and possibly--just possibly--a last
year's tailored suit, with a tear in the front of the skirt and not a scrap of
goods to make a fold to cover it. Why, oh, why, do they never have any
pieces?"
"The reason seems obvious enough," Mr. Warne suggested, as the girl
stooped and began to wrestle with the cords which tied the big package.
His glance fell musingly on the down-bent head with its masses of
dark-brown hair, upon the white and shapely arms from which the
sleeves were rolled back,--Georgiana had been busy in the kitchen
when the expressman came,--upon the whole comely young figure in
its blue-print morning dress. "They never have need of the pieces, I
should judge," said he.
"But I have. Jeannette might think of me when she orders her clothes,
not just when her maid is packing the box with a lot of castaways. Well,
here's hoping there's just one thing I can use," and she lifted the cover
of the box and looked within, it cannot be denied, with eager curiosity.
"There are always many things you can use," her father gently
reminded her; "you, who are so ingenious."
"Here's the evening frock!" cried his daughter, lifting out the top
garment and holding it up before them both. "Oh, what a dress to send a
poor country cousin! Fluff and flimsy, trimmed with sparklers; cut
frightfully low, no sleeves, and a draggly train. Doesn't it look suitable
for me?" She flung it aside with a gesture of scorn. "Ah, here's
something a shade better! A little dancing frock of rose-coloured
chiffon--and her clumsy partner stepped on the hem of it. The maid in
the dressing-room sewed it up for her to have her last dance in, and
then she came home and threw it into the box for me. Well, I can get a
gorgeous motor veil out of it--I who have so many drives in the cars of
the rich!"
"The--the under part looks available to me," suggested Mr. Warne,
striving to be of comfort.
Georgiana shrugged her blue-clad shoulders. "Oh, yes, if I could dress

in slitted silk petticoats and you could wear them for dressing-gowns,
we'd have plenty. Well, look at this! Here's a velvet--cerise! What a
glorious, impossible colour! And here's the lingerie frock; that's not so
bad; I really think it will stand a couple of launderings before it falls to
pieces in my hands. And here's the evening coat--pale gray with