so you've come at last!" said Mrs. Bruce disagreeably. "Now, get to work, and find those needles if you can. We've looked everywhere."
Blythe's glance went swiftly to the shelf over Mrs. Bruce's head.
"But—why, there they are! Just where I told you they were!" she said triumphantly.
"What do you mean?" snapped Mrs. Felton. "I don't see any needles."
"Why, in that blue box. Don't you remember, we took the whole box because we were afraid we wouldn't be able to get more later when we needed them."
"That blue box?" said Mrs. Felton, jumping up and going over to seize the box from the shelf. "Why I supposed those were safety pins. I don't understand."
She took down the box and opened it, and her face took on a look of utter amazement.
"My word!" she said slowly. "I certainly don't understand. I supposed, of course, these were safety pins that Mrs. Huyler brought. Well, then, where are they?"
"She took them home again when she found this wasn't a nursery," said Mrs. Bruce grimly. "She said she would take them to a place she knew needed them."
"Well, upon my word!" said Mrs. Felton again. "I guess you're right, and I was the one to blame. I certainly ask your pardon, Blythe."
"Oh, that's all right," laughed Blythe, swinging off her coat and hat and taking the first empty chair that presented itself. "Now, where do I begin? Do you need more buttonholes made, or shall I run a machine?"
"Make buttonholes," snapped Anne, handing over the baby's nightgown she had been set to finish. "I just hate them, and anyway, I always make them crooked. I don't see why poor babies have to have buttonholes anyway. Why can't they use safety pins? I'd rather buy a gross of them and donate them than have to make a single buttonhole."
"Oh, I don't mind buttonholes," said Blythe pleasantly. "That was one thing I learned to do when I was a little girl. We had a seamstress who made beautiful ones, and she taught me."
"Well, I'm sure you're welcome to do them all for me," said Anne disagreeably.
And it was just then that the telephone rang, and Anne, being on her feet, answered it. She always liked to answer the phone. It gave her a line to other people's business, and that was usually interesting.
"Yes?" she drawled as she took down the receiver. "Red Cross Sewing Class. "Who? Who did you say? Miss Bonniwell? Yes, she's here. Who shall I say wants her?"
But Blythe, with cheeks like lovely roses, was on her feet beside the telephone.
"I'll take it," she said smiling, as she gathered the receiver into her hand.
"Well, you needn't snatch it so," said Anne, turning angrily away just as she was trying to identify the voice as Dan Seaver's.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Blythe, her cheeks flaming crimson. "I didn't mean to snatch."
But Anne turned away with her head held high and went over to select a needle for her own use.
So the room held its breath to listen to the telephone conversation.
"Yes?" said Blythe quietly into the instrument, though she couldn't keep the lilt out of her voice, for she hoped she knew just who was calling her, though, of course, it might be her mother or Susan from home.
"Is that you, Blythe?" The voice on the wire was cautious, tentative.
"It certainly is," said Blythe, with a light ripple of a laugh.
"Are you alone?" Again the voice was very guarded, low. Even the most attentive listener could not have understood what came from the other end of the wire, for Blythe was cupping her hand about the receiver, which was most annoying to Mrs. Bruce. She severely shook her head at Mrs. Felton, who ventured to interrupt the performance by asking a question about which buttons were to go on the little nightgowns they were making.
But Blythe's voice was clear, without confusion.
"Oh no, I'm sorry!" she answered brightly. "But—you weren't late, were you?"
"No, I got here in plenty of time. The train was late, I found I had a few minutes to spare, and I wanted to hear your voice again, even if we couldn't speak privately."
"Oh, that's nice of you!" said Blythe graciously. "Don't forget to write that down for further reference," and she rippled out her bewildering laughter again.
"No, I won't forget," came the man's voice, louder and clearer than before. "I'll write that down as soon as I get on my way, and I'll see that it gets to the proper person. And by the way, will you kindly think over what I told you, and see if you can possibly respond to my suggestion?"
"Oh—yes—I'll do that," said Blythe in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'll take pleasure in doing that, and I'll let you know later what I think."
Blythe was talking in a very off-hand tone, and she had a feeling that her eyes were twinkling over her words and across the space between them, as if he could see her and understand why she was speaking in such veiled language. But her heart was warm and happy over his voice, even though she had to strain her ears to identify every word.
"That's good of you," said the man's voice, falling into the game easily. "I'm glad to have had this little talk with you—this chance to explain."
"Yes," said Blythe, smiling into the receiver. "It was so good of you to call. But how did you know where to find me?"
"Oh, I called the house first and the servant gave me the number," he explained.
"Oh, yes, of course," said Blythe, letting her voice linger, glad to have the brief interlude drawn out to its utmost, knowing the listeners would not understand. "Well, it was nice of you to take all that trouble to find me and let me know."
‘Oh, it was a pleasure, I assure you," spoke the young man. "And you are sure you won't forget?"
"Oh no, I won't forget," lilted Blythe. "And—I hope you—are successful!" Those last words were spoken guardedly, very low, her tone full of feeling, as she gave a quick glance about the silent room full of women, sewing steadily without a word.
Suddenly the man's voice spoke sharply, almost breathlessly:
"Well, I hear it coming! I must go! Is there any chance you might be at home later in the day or evening, if I had the opportunity to call again?"
"Oh yes," she breathed softly, "after two o'clock and all the evening. Yes, I'll be at home."
"Of course it may not be possible for me to call, but I'll try. Good-bye—dearest!"
Could that last whispered word be heard by the audience? Blythe held her head high and didn't care. What did all these women know or care about her and her precious, beautiful affairs?
Then she hung up the receiver, and walked steadily over to Mrs. Bruce.
"Have you one of those buttons I'm to make buttonholes for, Mrs. Bruce? I must get to work and make up for lost time."
She took the proffered button and went smilingly over to an empty chair,
