She spoke as if Cassy’s were much the better frock and the little girl was grateful, though she said earnestly: “It is much nicer than mine, Mrs. Dallas.”
“It ought to be. When a person has spoiled your best frock she ought to supply you with a new one, quite new, and this is not, though it is not worn.” So Cassy was furnished in this unexpected way with a frock which was neither too short in the sleeves nor the skirt, and which was far better than she ever dared hope for.
“I will send the other one home when it is thoroughly aired,” Mrs. Dallas told her.
“You must remember that I am Miss Morning-Glory,” Eleanor told her as they parted, “and I shall expect to see you every time I come to Uncle Heath’s.” So Cassy went off with her clouds lifted and with the memory of the very happiest day of her life.
“She is a queer little child,” Mrs. Dallas told her husband, “but she is a little lady and her mother must be one. I am very much interested in them.”
“So am I, Uncle Heath,” Eleanor said, “and I think it is a dreadful shame that Cassy’s father died of that accident, and that they have never had any money from the railroad people. Jerry says they ought to, and that his mother was advised to—to—what is it they do to railroads to get money?”
“You mean sue them?”
“Oh, yes, that’s it. I knew it was a girl’s name. They ought to have done that, but Mrs. Law hadn’t the money to get a lawyer, and railroads are hard to fight, Jerry says. I don’t see how anybody could fight a railroad, but that is what he said.”
“Humph!” said Mr. Dallas, thoughtfully, “we must look into this.”
Although Mrs. Law looked a little grave when Cassy told of how she came by this fine new frock, she agreed that it was perfectly right under the circumstances to accept it. She listened to the account of the day’s doings with much interest, and was well pleased that they should have had such a good time.