"And what are you going to do, Pussy?"
Steve reached over and gave the little girl's ear a soft pinch.
"I am going to look up a nice school for her myself. Don't begin to worry about a child not yet eight years old," said their mother sharply.
"Eight years. She'll soon be that," remarked her father with a soft sigh. And he wished he could keep her a little girl always.
They went on discussing Rutgers Institute, that was one of the most highly esteemed schools of the day for young ladies. Steve looked over at his fair sister—she was almost as pretty as Dolly Beekman. Dolly had some dainty, attractive ways, played on the piano and sang, and Peggy had a voice blithe as a bird. Steve was beginning to be quite a judge of young ladies and social life, and there was no reason why they should not all aim at something. They had good family names to back them. Family counted, but so did education and accomplishments.
Mrs. Underhill gave in. Steve would have his way. But then he was such a good, upright, affectionate son. So when he announced that he had registered his sister, Margaret's pulses gave a great thrill of delight.
There was so much to do. True, Martha was a good cook and capable, and there was no milk to look after, no churning, no poultry, and the countless things of country life. Miss Cynthia Blackfan came the next week and remodeled the feminine part of the household. She was a tall, slim, airy-looking person, with large dark eyes and dark hair that she wore in long ringlets on either side of her face. She always looped them up when she was sewing. She had all the latest quips of fashion at her tongue's end—what Margaret must have for school dresses, what for Sunday best, what lawns and ginghams and prints for summer.
But when she went at the little girl she quite metamorphosed her.
"You must begin to plait the child's hair and tie it with ribbons [people generally used the word instead of 'braid']. And her frocks must be made ever so much shorter. And, Cousin Underhill, do put white stockings on the child. Nobody wears colored ones. Unbleached do wear stronger and answer for real every day."
"They'll be forever in the wash-tub," said the mother grimly.