"But it's easily mended, and it won't show," answered Peggy, cheerfully.
"It isn't easy to mend that South American stuff so that it won't show," remarked Agnes, coolly.
"I know it isn't usually," answered Peggy, as coolly; "but auntie can mend almost anything."
"It is a perfectly beautiful dress. I wish I had one just like it," broke forth Tilly, hurriedly, hardly knowing what she was saying in the desire to say something kind.
"You could easily send for one like it," spoke up Agnes, "if you knew anybody out there, or what shop or convent address to send to."
"We could send for you," said Peggy, turning to Tilly. Tilly looked startled.
"Have you friends out there?" asked Agnes, with an impertinent stare at Peggy.
"Yes," answered Peggy, curtly, meeting Agnes's stare with a look of sudden haughtiness.
Tilly turned hot and cold, but through all her perturbation was one feeling of satisfaction. Peggy could stand her ground, it seemed, and resent impertinence; but, "Oh, dear!" said this poor Tilly to herself, "that South American gown, I suppose, proves that she must be that Smithson man's daughter; but grandmother was right,—she is innocent of the facts of the case, of that there can be no doubt,—and we must be good to her, and now is the time to begin,—this very minute, when Agnes is planning what hateful thing she can do next."
Fired by this thought, Tilly sprang to her feet, and, casting a glance of scorn and contempt at Agnes, slipped her hand over Peggy's arm and said,—