"She does not of course expect to be asked to ride with us," I said; "she is evidently of a poor family."
As a sort of leader in school, my words were influential, and poor Abby was left out. How often did I contrast my white hands and warm gloves with the purple fingers and cheap mittens of my neighbour Abby. How miserable I should be with such working hands and no gloves.
By-and-by I took to patronizing her. "She is really a very nice creature, and ought to join us more in our plays," we said. So we used to make her "one of us" in the play-ground. In fact, I began to thaw towards her very considerably. There was something in Abby which called out our respect.
One Saturday afternoon, as I was looking out of the window, wishing for something to do, my mother asked me to join her in a little walk. On went my new cloak, warm furs, and pink hat, and in a trice I was ready. We went first to the stores, where I was very glad to be met by several acquaintances in my handsome winter dress. At last I found my mother turning off into less frequented thoroughfares.
"Where, mother," I asked, "in this vulgar part of the town?"
"Not vulgar, my dear," she said. "A very respectable and industrious part of our population live here."
"Not fashionable, certainly," I added.
"And not vulgar because not fashionable, by any means," she said; for you may be sure my false and often foolish notions were not gained from her. She stopped before a humble-looking house, and entered the front door.
"Where are you going?" I asked with much curiosity.
She gently opened a side door, and hesitated a moment on the threshold.