like to say anything to her, with the result that Mother thinks I wear
out an awful lot, and yet I know she wouldn't want me to wear stockings
with holes in them. I found out early in life that it is foolish to
try to do things you are not by nature fitted to do, and I am not
fitted by nature to sit still for hours and fill up a little hole in a
stocking to save a few cents or a dollar or so. I don't do it. I
would rather save in some other way.

Miss Araminta loves to darn. Also she loves pretty clothes in a way
that is truly pitiful, not having the means to get them, and she has
about as much idea how to have her few things made as a Comanche Indian
has of _vers-libre_. If she would wear those that suited her style she
would look dear, but she wears clothes of many colors made, as she
thinks, in the prevailing fashion, and of course she is a sight for all
beholders. While I was reading _Pendennis_ out loud I was wondering at
the same time what Miss Araminta was going to wear to the reception
Judge and Mrs. Maclean are going to give to their two married daughters
and their husbands on the 17th of August, which is the big thing of the
year for Twickenham Town; but of course I couldn't ask her. I knew she
had nothing suitable or that had not been the subject of nudges and
remarks under the breath, and smiles that could be heard. And I also
knew nothing could keep her away, for she dearly loves to go to parties
and is not often invited, being of an inconvenient age for
entertainments, and I wished something could come to pass that would be
to her interest.

As I read I poked around in my mind trying to think what might be done,
and suddenly something came to me, and after a while I put the book
down and began to talk of the different things that were going on in
town and the many visitors who were already there, and then I asked
Miss Araminta if she didn't think lavender was a lovely color. She
said it was the one she loved best and all her life she had longed for
a lavender satin with everything to match, but she knew now she would
never have it and she rarely let herself wish for things any more. And
she sighed the softest little sigh, like a mother whose baby had died a
long time ago, but who always kept it in her heart, and I said to
myself, "Go up-stairs, Kitty Canary, and think out a way," and
up-stairs I went.

August is The Season in Twickenham Town, and there is hardly a family
in it that doesn't ha