“Well—er—ahem!”
“Is that it, Uncle Starkweather?”
“You see, my dear,” he began again, rather red in the face, but glad that he was getting out of a bad corner so easily, “you do not just fit in, here, with our family life. You see it yourself, perhaps?”
“Perhaps I do, sir,” replied the girl from Sunset Ranch.
“You would be quite at a disadvantage beside my girls—ahem! You would not be happy here. And of course, you haven’t a particle of claim upon us.”
“No, sir; not a particle,” repeated Helen.
“So you see, all things considered, it would be much better for you to return to your own people—ahem—own people,” said Mr. Starkweather, with emphasis. “Now—er—you are rather shabby, I fear, Helen. I am not as rich a man as you may suppose. But I—— The fact is, the girls are ashamed of your appearance,” he pursued, without looking at her, and opening his bill case.
“Here is ten dollars. I understand that a young miss like you can be fitted very nicely to a frock downtown for less than ten dollars. I advise you to go out to-morrow and find yourself a more up-to-date frock than—than that one you have on, for instance.
“Somebody might see you come into the house—ahem!—some of our friends, I mean, and they would not understand. Get a new dress, Helen. While you are here look your best. Ahem! We all must give the hostage of a neat appearance to society.”
“Yes, sir,” said Helen, simply.