"We are invited to work, you know," said Miss Chetwood, laughing, "so will be expected early; we should not be later than one o'clock, I think, and as it is not very nice work—carpet rags being apt to be dusty—we should not wear anything that will not wash. I shall put on a calico dress and carry a big work apron with me."
"Then I shall do the same."
"I wish you would; for there will be some girls there who haven't the means to dress and would feel badly if you or I outshone them very much."
"I can't go before three, or half-past, though; on account of having to recite to Mr. Lord."
"Never mind; I daresay it's just as well; for you'll get quite enough of both the work and the company."
Following out the instructions received, Mildred attired herself for the occasion with the utmost simplicity; but could not lay aside her delicate prettiness or a certain air of culture and refinement that made her more the real lady in her calico, than almost any of her companions of the afternoon would have been in the richest silk or velvet.
Just as she was ready to go, Ada came in from school, crying heartily.
"What's the matter?" asked Mildred, meeting her on the threshold and turning back full of sympathy.
"I—I've lost my place in the spelling-class," sobbed the child, "and I didn't miss a word either. You know I got up head the first day, and I've kept there ever since—'way above all those big, big girls, some of 'em as big as you, Milly."