"Oh, Aunt Priscilla, I think my ship has come in from the Indies. I never can thank you enough. I'm so glad you saved them. You see, times are hard, and if father had to pay a girl for taking my place at home, he wouldn't feel that he could afford me much finery. And the journey, too. But I have only to pay from Springfield to Boston, for Mr. Eastman has his own conveyance—a nice big covered sleigh. And now all these beautiful things! I feel as rich as a queen."
Doris had been standing there big-eyed and never once asked for Solomon.
Aunt Priscilla began to fold the gown. It still had a crackle and rustle delightful to hear. And there was a roll of new pieces.
"Why, next summer I could have a lovely drawn bonnet—only it does cost so much to have one made. I wish I knew how," said Betty.
"I suppose—you don't want to see my old thing?" rather contemptuously.
"The hat, do you mean? Oh, I just should! I've thought so much about it, and how queer it is that old-fashioned articles should come round."
"Every seven years, people say; but I don't believe it's quite as often as that."
From the careful way it was pinned up, one would never imagine it had been out that very morning. The bows were filled with paper to keep them up, and bits of paper crumpled up around, so they could not be crushed. Its days of whiteness were over, but it was the loveliest, softest cream tint, and looked as if it had just come over from France. The beaver was almost like plush, and the puffed satin lining inside was as fresh as if its reverse plaits had just been laid in place.
"Oh, do put it on!" cried Doris eagerly.
Betty held the strings together under her fair round chin.