er as good an appearance as my Amelia."

Grandmother Wheeler had a temper. It was a childish temper and soon
over--still, a temper. "Lord," said she, "if you mean to say that
you think your poor little snipe of a daughter, dressed like a little
maid-of-all-work, can compare with that lovely little Lily Jennings, who
is dressed like a doll!--"

"I do not wish that my daughter should be dressed like a doll," said
Mrs. Diantha, coolly.

"Well, she certainly isn't," said Grandmother Wheeler. "Nobody would
ever take her for a doll as far as looks or dress are concerned. She may
be GOOD enough. I don't deny that Amelia is a good little girl, but her
looks could be improved on."

"Looks matter very little," said Mrs. Diantha.

"They matter very much," said Grandmother Wheeler, pugnaciously, her
blue eyes taking on a peculiar opaque glint, as always when she lost
her temper, "very much indeed. But looks can't be helped. If poor little
Amelia wasn't born with pretty looks, she wasn't. But she wasn't born
with such ugly clothes. She might be better dressed."

"I dress my daughter as I consider best," said Mrs. Diantha. Then she
left the room.

Grandmother Wheeler sat for a few minutes, her blue eyes opaque, her
little pink lips a straight line; then suddenly her eyes lit, and she
smiled. "Poor Diantha," said she, "I remember how Henry used to like
Lily Jennings's mother before he married Diantha. Sour grapes hang
high." But Grandmother Wheeler's beautiful old face was quite soft and
gentle. From her heart she pitied the reacher after those high-hanging
sour grapes, for Mrs. Diantha had been very good to her.

Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild persistency not evident to a
casual observer, began to make plans and lay plots. She was resolved,
Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's child, should have
some fine feathers. The little conference had taken place in her own
room, a large, sunny one, with a little storeroom opening from it.
Presently Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the storeroom, and began
rummaging in some old trunks. Then followed days of secret work.
Grandmother Wheeler had been noted as a fine needlewoman, and her
hand had not yet lost its cunning. She had one of Amelia's ugly little
ginghams, purloined from a closet, for size, and she worked two or
three dainty wonders. She took Grandmother Stark into her confidence.
Sometimes the two ladies, by reason of their age, found it possible to
co