"'Miranda,' he said, 'What have you been doing here?'
"'Doing, my dear Miles?' said Mamma. 'What should I have been doing? Dressing baby after her afternoon nap, to be sure.'
"'Dressing her!' says Pater. 'Dressing her!' Then he broke off, Mammy says, and put his hand to his forehead, as if he were in a kind of dream.
"'Miranda,' he said, 'I have been greatly occupied for the last few weeks, and have not fully realised what was going on. I have been dimly aware that, when I came home, the whole world seemed to turn brown and dingy. At first I thought it was the weather; then I thought it was the condition of business; at last I began to think that my sight must be failing, and cataracts forming, or something of the kind, so that I could see nothing without a brownish tinge over it. Now, I—I realise what the matter is; and I ask what—what is this stuff in which my family is masquerading?'
"'Masquerading, Miles? I don't understand you. This is brown gingham, a most excellent material, inexpensive, durable, and neat. I bought forty yards of it, so that the children might all be dressed alike, and without all this fuss and expense of different materials. You know you said we must economise this summer, and I—'
"'Yes,' said Pater. 'Yes, I understand now. Miranda, you are a good woman, but you have your limitations.'
"He would not say another word, but went off into the garden to smoke. We forgot all about what he said, all but Mammy, and she thought he would get used to the brown gingham in time, and, anyhow, she had meant to do the best, dear darling.
"Hildegarde, the next morning, when we all came to dress, our clothes were gone."
"Gone!" repeated Hildegarde.
"Gone,—vanished; frock and kilt, slip and apron. Not an atom of brown gingham was to be found in the house. And the rest of the piece, which Mammy had meant to make into a gown for herself, was gone, too. Mammy looked everywhere, but in a few minutes she understood how it was. She didn't say a word, but just put on our old dresses, such as were left of them. They were pretty well outworn and outgrown, but we were glad to get into them. We hardly knew how we had hated the brown gingham ourselves, till we got out of it. Well, that day there came from one of the big shops a box of clothes; an enormous box, big as a packing-case. Oh! dresses and dresses, frocks and pinafores and kilts, everything you can imagine, and all in the brightest colours,—pink and blue, yellow and green,—a perfect flower-garden. White ones, too, three or four apiece; and the prettiest slips for Baby, and a lovely flowered silk for Mammy. You can imagine how I danced with joy; the boys were delighted, too, and as for old Nursey, she beamed all over like an Irish sun. When Papa came home that afternoon, we were all dressed up, the boys in little white sailor suits, I in a ruffled pink frock, and Mammy and Baby most lovely in white and flowers. He looked us all over again. 'Ha!' he said, 'once more I have a family, and not a shoal of mud-fish. Thank you, my dear.' And none of us has ever worn brown since that day, Hildegarde."