According to the Pattern (Romance Classic). Grace Livingston Hill

cost before she began and had put the matter in immediate operation so soon as she had the landlord’s permission. A little carpenter work and painting, and some large panes of plate glass, and the house was transformed outwardly as well as inwardly. The neighbors regarded the curved bay window that occupied the place of the former two common windows with envy. A new front door and tiled vestibule had taken the place of their dingy predecessors, and a queer little odd-shaped window with leaded panes over the front door broke the straight, solemn line of the monotonous row, making an altogether pretty and dainty looking abiding-place.

      The carpenter and painter had finished their work but the day before, and Miriam carefully arranged the filmy curtains and graceful palm branches, and was hovering over a newly filled window box in the second story curved bay window, which was aglow with bright blossoms and rich greenery, when she saw a carriage turn into Hazel Avenue from Fifteenth Street and stop before her door.

      She did not wait to see who it was, but slipped to her bedroom where lay on her bed a pretty house gown just finished, all but a few stray hooks which were waiting to be put on. It was the work of but a moment to slip into it, and she blessed the fates that had made her leave it there close at hand. She had tried it on but an hour before and so felt sure that it looked all right, and when her wondering but demure handmaid came to her door with the silver tray bearing Mrs. Lyman’s card she found her mistress already fastening the waist of her gown and quite calm outwardly, although quaking inwardly. She was about to make her first entrance into real society, a genuine call from a society woman, and through no effort of her own. She rejoiced in that fact.

      “Isn’t it sweet here?” murmured Celia, who had begged to come along because she had fallen in love with the supposed Mrs. Preston.

      “Very,” said her mother with a relieved air, “quite modest and unassuming, but all that is required,” and she settled back to await the coming of her hostess.

      Miriam trembled as she crossed the little hall and wondered if she would be able to imitate the fashionable handclasp of the day which she had observed of late and had feared to attempt, but she came forward quite naturally in spite of her trepidation and welcomed her caller graciously. There was less assurance in Mrs. Lyman’s manner than she had expected. In fact that lady seemed almost ill at case as she rose to meet her, and she turned with relief to the fair-haired daughter, who immediately began to gush about the house which she called, “sweet.”

      Mrs. Winthrop at once spoke of the kindness of Mrs. Lyman in inviting her to the musicale, expressing her delight in fine music, and an indescribable look came over Mrs. Lyman’s face, while Miss Celia began to say something about all the Prestons being so fond of music, which her mother immediately drowned by plunging wildly into a conversation about something as far from music as she could think of.

      It was a rather interesting call, altogether considered.

      The hostess felt herself to be on trial and was therefore not quite natural. The caller too was evidently somewhat distraught. Her daughter could scarcely wait until they were out at the carriage before asking her what was the matter. But Mrs. Lyman paused at the very threshold, a sudden thought reminding her that she did not know the name of this guest-to-be of hers.

      “Is Mr.—that is, is your husband at home now?” She asked it hesitatingly, and Miriam, because of her tragic thought of her husband, felt herself flushing to the roots of her hair.

      She made a great effort to control herself, for she knew she was blushing, but answered quietly enough. “No. Mr. Winthrop has been obliged to go abroad on business. I am expecting him home soon.

      “Ah, indeed. Then you must be lonely,” murmured the caller, turning satisfied to go down the steps.

      “Winthrop, Winthrop? Where have I heard that name? I know her face and I think I can recall his, but who are they? Celia, my child, into what have you led me?”

      By this time the young lady had begun to suspect what was wrong, but she was not struck with the serious side. Instead she burst into a peal of laughter, whereat her mother laid a reproving hand upon her mouth.

      “Hush, Celia, she will hear you,” she said, and looked anxiously back at the little house fast vanishing from sight through the carriage window. “It really isn’t so bad a house and she seems refined. I suppose it can’t be helped now.”

      “And why should it?” said Miss Celia, sobering down. “She is perfectly lovely and had the sweetest little home. What does it matter who they are if they are nice, I would like to know? She looks as if she was perfectly - happy. I should just enjoy such cozy love-in-a-cottage as that. I saw the dearest baby in white in the maid’s arms up at that pretty window behind the flowers. I’m going to take her up. I don’t care who she is and I don’t see why you care. Aren’t you ‘who’ enough yourself without bothering about other folks? It can’t hurt you any, mamma, if her grandfather didn’t know yours.”

      “Celia,” said her mother severely, “you are very young and know very little of the world.”