Miss Rindy was almost as excited as Ellen. “I’ll get those frocks altered in short order,” she said. “I think we’d better go over your mother’s trunks and see if there is anything in them that would be useful to you in the city. Now that you are sixteen, Ellen, things would be suitable for you that wouldn’t have been a year or more ago.”
“But what about you? Surely you have something to do for yourself.”
“Not much.”
“You certainly need a new hat, Cousin Rindy. Aren’t you going to get one?”
“No, I am not. Do you think I’m made of money? If Bertha Martin doesn’t like me in my old hat, she can let me alone. She has seen me in a worse rig than any I’m likely to appear in now.”
“You are going to take your lace dress.”
“Yes, I’ll take that, although I always feel guilty about wearing it when I think that you may need it some day.”
“That I never shall. Long before I am old enough to wear it I hope to be able to buy all sorts of splendor.”
“You are very optimistic, I must confess. If you can provide yourself with one decent dress a year, you’ll be doing well.”
“Why discourage me in my high hopes? Thoreau says it is all right to build castles in the air if later you put foundations under them.”