"Father," she cried resolutely, "if it's to be, why, it's to be, and it can't be helped; but I wouldn't give in without trying to get the upper hand, that I wouldn't."
Her father shook his head disconsolately.
"Child," he said, "it's like setting an old horse against a mettlesome young one. That new fellow has got every advantage. Look at his shop, then look at mine; why, his is twice as big again. Look at his front— all plate glass; look at his counters—all polished oak!"
"Well, and can't you get the shop—our shop—done up too?" ambitiously asked Mary. "There's time yet."
"Why yes, there is—but the money, Mary dear!"
"Never mind the money."
"No more I would, my pet, if I had got it; but you see, the one pound ten a week hasn't kept up; and those things cost a precious deal."
Mary reflected a while. "S'pose," she suggested, "you got in a fresh stock of jams in glass jars, for the front window."
"And what shall we do with the old?"
"Eat them. And s'pose you add a few pots of pickles?"