h, and
one must do these things economically,--it really does take all the time
I have. When I was confirmed the Bishop talked to us so sweetly, and I
really meant sincerely to be a good girl,--to be as good as I knew how;
but now, when they talk about fighting the good fight and running the
Christian race, I feel very mean and little, for I am sure this isn't
doing it. But what is,--and who is?"

"Aunt Betsey Titcomb is doing it, I suppose," said Pheasant.

"Aunt Betsey!" said Humming-Bird, "well, she is. She spends _all_ her
money in doing good. She goes around visiting the poor all the time. She
is a perfect saint;--but O girls, how she looks! Well, now, I confess,
when I think I must look like Aunt Betsey, my courage gives out. _Is_ it
necessary to go without hoops, and look like a dipped candle, in order
to be unworldly? Must one wear such a fright of a bonnet?"

"No," said Jennie, "I think not. I think Miss Betsey Titcomb, good as
she is, injures the cause of goodness by making it outwardly repulsive.
I really think, if she would take some pains with her dress, and spend
upon her own wardrobe a little of the money she gives away, that she
might have influence in leading others to higher aims; now all her
influence is against it. Her _outre_ and repulsive exterior arrays our
natural and innocent feelings against goodness; for surely it is natural
and innocent to wish to look well, and I am really afraid a great many
of us are more afraid of being thought ridiculous than of being wicked."

"And after all," said Pheasant, "you know Mr. St. Clair says, 'Dress is
one of the fine arts,' and if it is, why of course we ought to cultivate
it. Certainly, well-dressed men and women are more agreeable objects
than rude and unkempt ones. There must be somebody whose mission it is
to preside over the agreeable arts of life; and I suppose it falls to
'us girls.' That's the way I comfort myself, at all events. Then I must
confess that I do like dress; I'm not cultivated enough to be a painter
or a poet, and I have all my artistic nature, such as it is, in dress. I
love harmonies of color, exact shades and matches; I love to see a
uniform idea carried all through a woman's toilet,--her dress, her
bonnet, her gloves, her shoes, her pocket-handkerchief and cuffs, her
very parasol, all in correspondence."

"But, my dear," said Jennie, "anything of this kind must take a
fortune!"

"And if I had a fortune, I'm pretty sure I shoul