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 came down to her room crying with eyes as red as any dress.

“She says I’ve got to get out,” said Grace. “The old beast. Because I owe her $4. She’s put my trunk in the hall and locked the door. I can’t go anywhere else. I haven’t got a cent of money.”

“You had some yesterday,” said Maida.

“I paid it on my dress,” said Grace. “I thought she’d wait till next week for the rent.”

Sniffle, sniffle, sob, sniffle.

Out came—out it had to come—Maida’s $4.

“You blessed darling,” cried Grace, now a rainbow instead of sunset. “I’ll pay the mean old thing and then I’m going to try on my dress. I think it’s heavenly. Come up and look at it. I’ll pay the money back, a dollar a week—honest I will.”

Thanksgiving.

The dinner was to be at noon. At a quarter to twelve Grace switched into Maida’s room. Yes, she looked charming. Red was her color. Maida sat by the window in her old cheviot skirt and blue waist darning a st—. Oh, doing fancy work.

“Why, goodness me! ain’t you dressed yet?” shrilled the red one. “How does it fit in the back? Don’t you think these velvet tabs look awful swell? Why ain’t you dressed, Maida?”

“My dress didn’t get finished in time,” said Maida. “I’m not going to the dinner.”