Eliza Creery was a pertinacious woman, and had not lost sight of her designs upon the black silk gown (neither had Helen).
"My dear," she said, "if you ask my advice," the last thing that was likely to occur to her listener, "you will sell all your things. They will be a perfect boon here, and it is not unusual in cases of sudden mourning, and utter destitution, such as yours." Helen winced and grew very pale. "I really think that you might have had this made with a little more style," touching her black dress. "But now," seriously, "what about your others?"
"Lizzie Caggett was asking about my cottons."
"Yes?" stiffening with apprehension.
"I told her that I would be only too glad to let her have them. There are one or two that I cannot bear to look at. He liked them," she added under her breath.
"And for how much? What did you ask for them?"
"Why, nothing, of course!" returned Helen in amazement.
"Then she shan't have them. I shall not stand by and see you fleeced. I shall certainly speak to her mother. What a horrible, grasping, greedy girl; taking advantage of your innocence—she would not get round me like that!" (Mrs. Creery never spoke a truer word).
"But they are useless, quite useless to me," exclaimed Helen.
"Rubbish! nonsense! is money useless to any one? Did you give her anything else?" demanded the matron sharply.