But when she mentioned this to Mrs. Carnehill the older woman, with a perception which was unusual with her, said: “You know, I can’t quite see you as a Cinderella. You are so fair, so clean-cut. I always think of Cinderella—until that business with the pumpkin—as a mousy, insignificant creature. And no one could ever call you that, Joanna!”“Well, does it matter?” asked Joanna with a smile that was a little weary.“It does! I want you to shine at this party of ours. I wonder what else we could think of for you? Wait now, till I have it!”For a few minutes deep thought clouded the blue eyes of which her son’s were so true a reflection.Then she exclaimed: “The very thing! Come with me.”Obediently, Joanna followed the sturdy little figure out of the room and across to the long drawing-room which was so seldom used and where she had waited on the chill spring day for Dale Woodward to come to her for the last time.On the far wall from the door hung the portrait of a girl at which she had looked vaguely on that day.
