the idea.

"Nancy, darling, aren't you going to get yourself some slippers?"

"No--I don't need them. The ones I have are quite good."

"I feel so mean, Nancy. Do you think I'm horribly selfish?"

"Selfish! You aren't the least bit selfish, dear. I can understand
perfectly how you hate to go among all those rich girls without looking
as well-dressed as any of them, when you're a thousand times prettier
than the nicest looking one of them. Besides, just this once----" She
paused, realizing that it was not a case of "just this once" at all.
Pretty, new clothes and pocket money would be the barest necessities
when they should be at Miss Leland's. Why didn't her mother see the
folly of sending them to a place where they would learn to want things,
actually to need things, far beyond the reach of their little bank
account, and where Alma, chumming with girls who had everything that
feminine fancy could desire, would either be made miserable, or--she
tried to rout her own practical thoughts. Why was it that she was so
unwilling to trust in rosy chance? Why was it always she who had to
bring the wet blanket of harsh common sense to dampen her mother's and
sister's debonair trust in a smiling Providence? Was she wrong after
all? She considered the lilies of the field, but somehow she could not
believe that their example was the wisest one for impecunious human
beings to follow. Lilies could live on sun and dew, and they had
nothing to do but wave in the wind.

"Oh, look, Nancy--aren't those feather fans exquisite----"

"Alma, don't you dare to peep at another showcase in this store, or
I'll tie my handkerchief over your eyes and lead you out blindfolded
like a horse out of a fire."

"But _do_ look at those darling little bottles of perfume. They're
straight from Paris. I can tell from those adorable boxes with the
orange silk tassels. Wouldn't you give anything on earth to have one?
When I'm rich I'm going to have dozens of bottles--those slender
crystal ones with enamel tops; and they'll stand in a row across the
top of a Louis XVI dressing-table." Nancy smiled at Alma's
ever-recurring phrase, "When I'm rich." She wondered if her butterfly
sister had formed any clear notions of how that beatific state was to
be realized.

"Alma Prescott, there's the door, and thank heaven for it. Have the
goodness, ma'am, to go directly through it. The street is immediately
beyond, and that is the safest place for