“But I would rather.”
“And Rose is used to the nursing now.”
“I thought Mrs. Whitcomb was going to help us sew,” said Fan. “No one, save the baby, has anything to wear.”
“She has been so confined to the sick room, my dear! And Mr. Sprague sent word that he should come for her to-morrow.”
“When I get rich, I shall hire Mrs. Whitcomb by the year,” Fan announced. “She shall sew, and knit, and tend babies, and turn old dresses; and we will have a perpetual holiday.”
Mamma laughed at that.
“It is very nice to have invitations to select picnics,” Fanny began when we were up stairs. “But, since we are not lilies of the field, it behooves us to ask, wherewith shall we be clothed? Nelly will have to take most of my last summer’s gowns. That sounds rather grand—doesn’t it? The wood-colored lawn I inherited from mamma, my tucked nainsook, and my pique. I can’t begin to squeeze into the waists; and tight-lacing is injurious, even if you should pursue it from the noble motive of economy. I don’t want to wear my new poplin and get it spoiled; and my cambric is faded. I am dying for a new white dress. O, dear, What a houseful there is to provide for, to be sure!”
“You do need the dress sadly. I wonder if we couldn’t get it?”
“We might ask papa for the collection money.”
“O, Fan, you irreverent girl!”