Hurriedly Sue doubled the black lengths. "It's—it's just a vestment," she explained, embarrassed.
"Please." Mrs. Milo held out a white hand.
To go forward and lay the vestment in that hand meant to disclose the presence of the hiding quartette. With quick forethought, Sue leaned far forward in what might be mistaken for a bow, tipped her head gaily to one side, and stretched an arm to proffer the offending garment. "Here, motherkins! It's in need of mending."
Mrs. Milo tossed the vestment to the piano. "What has your work—your accounts and statements and stenography—what have they to do with the Rector's mending?" she demanded.
"Well, mother, I used to mend for the last minister."
"Oh, my daughter!" mourned Mrs. Milo.
"Ye-e-e-s, mother?"—fearful that the boys were at last discovered.
"Do you mean to say that you see no difference in mending for a single man? a young man? an utter stranger?"
Sue heaved a sigh of relief. "Mother darling," she protested fondly; "hardly a stranger."
"We'll not discuss it," said her mother gently; then taking a more judicial attitude, "Now, I'll speak to those boys."