"Why, it looks like mourning," mother said.
"Grannie never will wear anything but black for her best, and I wanted to get what she'd use," says father.
Grannie was feeling the merino between her finger and thumb.
"It's beautiful stuff," she said—"the best I ever had. And I'm much obliged to you for thinking of me, Miles. It's like your kind heart. But I'd sooner you had waited till the money was come. Supposing it wasn't to come after all, how would you pay for these things?"
"Oh, nonsense, mother,—bother!" said he. "The money's sure."
"Maybe so," said she. "But I'll wait to have my dress made up till it does come."
"I shan't wait," mother said, tossing her head back.
"I shall," grannie said. "I'm obliged to you, Miles, but you'll please to remember that I'm not going to have anything else got for me at all, till the money has come. I don't think it's right. I would send this back straight to Trowgood's, if I wasn't afraid of vexing you."
"It would vex me too," father said. "That's a nice sort of gratitude, I do think. It would vex me, mother, and what's more, Trowgood never takes back cut goods. So you'll just have to be content, and if you're a wise woman you'll get it made up, and wear it when Sue wears her green silk."
"But haven't you got anything for yourself, Miles?" asked mother, looking as pleased as a child over a new toy.