THE modest wish of Alice's was not to be fulfilled.
The portly figure of Tom's mother came around the corner of the house, stately as a ship in full sail. She adjusted her eye-glasses and surveyed her grandchild.
"Whatever," she cried, "has that child got on? Why, it can't be, and yet it is, your Great Aunt Pamela's basque! I should think, my dear, that you'd prefer to keep family relics like that."
"That relic," replied Alice with firmness, "will never wear out! When we were little, Ethel and I played with it, and Mother said it had been used for charades by her." Sara's grandmother stared at her grandchild. The conclusion that she came to was:
"I don't believe in letting children make frights of themselves. What sense is there in allowing a child to deform itself, Alice, at an impressionable age like this? It must be bad for their tender little souls. What on earth has that child got on?"
"A bustle," murmured Alice faintly.
"A child shouldn't gaze on a monstrosity like a bustle, without having the full significance of such a preposterous piece of apparel explained to her." And, as Sara approached Mrs. Marcey espied the adornments of her grandchild's face.
"What has she on her face?" she inquired coldly.
"A little water-color paint," Alice admitted.
"I have no patience with you, Alice," remarked Mrs. Marcey. "Come and speak to Grandma, darling. Come
