“Let us stand here in the vestibule,” said Connie, “and then we shall be sure not to miss her.” And they waited till Mrs. Dixon appeared. She was surprised and glad to see the girls, but looked a little puzzled when Persis told where she was stopping. “I wish you could spend part of your time with me,” she said, looking from one girl to another.
“Oh, I can’t spare her,” said Connie.
Mrs. Dixon smiled, but she looked thoughtful immediately after. “Couldn’t you both come and spend Saturday and Sunday with me?” she presently asked. Persis’s look of pleasure gave her answer, but Connie looked doubtful.
“I am sure your father would not object; and if Mrs. Steuart will consent, I shall be very glad to have you,” continued Mrs. Dixon.
“If Persis likes, I shall enjoy coming,” said Connie, “and I don’t think there will be any difficulty about the consent.”
In consequence Persis returned from church with a lighter heart, and felt that she could eat her Thanksgiving dinner with a real sense of gratitude since her stay at the Steuarts’ was to be shortened by two days.
“I will send the carriage for you early on Saturday,” Mrs. Dixon had said, and Persis counted the hours. There was an honest intention on the part of the Steuarts to make the girl have a good time, but the entertainment provided was of such a different character from that to which Persis was accustomed that she shrank from it. She wondered how people who pleaded poverty could afford to buy so much confectionery, and could put such an amount of trimming on their frocks. She had never been used to dressing conspicuously and sitting at a front window in order to attract attention, and make remarks on passers by; to laugh and smirk if a young man chanced to look up; to romp with casual callers, or to go from shop to shop for the mere purpose of seeing the crowd and getting into conversation with the clerks. She was so full of wonder at all this behavior that she made a clean breast of it to Mrs. Dixon as soon as an opportunity came.
“My dear,” said that lady, “I am so sorry it happened so. I wish your mother had written to me before you decided to go home with Connie. The Stewarts are not persons your parents would choose for your associates. I do not mean that they are bad people. The girls are simply silly, brainless creatures, who err because they have never been used to refined influences. Poor little Connie should have better surroundings. She is the daughter of a dear school-mate of mine who died when Connie was scarcely more than a baby. Connie’s father married for his second wife a woman who was not his social equal. She has been very good to Connie in many ways, and while I regret the child’s environment, there is nothing much that can be done. I think her school association will help her, and I hope some day she will be a fine woman. She has a small fortune left by her mother which will educate her and give her a little income when she is through school. So she is not dependent upon her father. Help her all you can, Persis, without compromising yourself. It is a difficult case and one in which it is hard to do just right.”
Persis looked immensely relieved. “Oh, Mrs. Dixon,” she said, “you were so good to invite us here! I should have perished with homesickness if I had stayed there till Monday; and they really tried to be kind. I felt so ungrateful, and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.”
“I know, dear; it was a hard position for you. Now, we must try to do our best for Constance. I am so glad you find her companionable, and I hope some day she will prove worthy of the sweet woman who was her mother. Mere pride of birth is a small matter. No doubt the Stewarts point to as fine ancestry as you or I, but we cannot help making social distinctions, and although Mrs. Steuart may be an honest, well-intentioned woman, she does not rear her daughters as judiciously as your mother does hers; moreover, you are apt to meet at her house persons of whom your parents would not approve; so this must be your last visit there.”