ind to her. She was sent to school regularly,
and had plenty to eat and wear, of a certain sort. Every Spring, Aunt
Matilda made the year's supply of underclothing, using for the purpose
coarse, unbleached muslin, thriftily purchased by the bolt. The brown
alpaca and brown gingham, in which she and her grandmother and aunt had
been dressed ever since she could remember, were also bought by the
piece. The fashion of the garments had not changed, for one way of
making a gown was held to be as good as another, and a great deal
easier, if the maker were accustomed to doing it.

[Sidenote: Year after Year]

So, year after year, Rosemary wore full skirts of brown alpaca, gathered
into a band, and tight-fitting waists, boned and lined, buttoning down
the front with a row of small jet buttons. The sleeves were always long,
plain, and tight, no matter what other people were wearing. A bit of
cheap lace gathered at the top of the collar was the only attempt at
adornment.

The brown ginghams were made in the same way, except that the waists
were not boned. The cheap white muslin, which served as Rosemary's best
Summer gown, was made like the ginghams. Her Winter hat was brown felt,
trimmed with brown ribbon, her Summer hat was brown straw, trimmed with
brown ribbon, and her Winter coat was also brown, of some heavy material
which wore surpassingly well.

For years her beauty-loving soul had been in revolt, but never before
had she dared to suggest a change. The lump in her throat choked her as
she washed the dishes, heedless of the tears that fell into the
dish-pan. But activity is a sovereign remedy for the blues, and by the
time the kitchen was made spotless, she had recovered her composure.
She washed her face in cold water, dusted her red eyes with a bit of
corn-starch, and put the cups and plates in their proper places.

[Sidenote: Toiling Cheerfully]

She listened half-fearfully for a moment before she opened the door,
dreading to hear the dear memory of her mother still under discussion,
but Grandmother and Aunt Matilda were wrangling happily over the
hair-wreath in the parlour. This was a fruitful source of argument when
all other subjects had failed, for Grandmother insisted that the yellow
rose in the centre was made from the golden curls of Uncle Henry
Underwood's oldest boy, while Aunt Matilda was equally certain that it
had come from Sarah Starr's second daughter by her first husband.

Throughout the day Rosem