Another thing that troubled Polly was her clothes, for, though no one said anything, she knew they were very plain; and now and then she wished that her blue and mouse colored merinos were rather more trimmed, her sashes had bigger bows, and her little ruffles more lace on them. She sighed for a locket, and, for the first time in her life, thought seriously of turning up her pretty curls and putting on a “wad.” She kept these discontents to herself, however, after she had written to ask her mother if she might have her best dress altered like Fanny's, and received this reply: “No, dear; the dress is proper and becoming as it is, and the old fashion of simplicity the best for all of us. I don't want my Polly to be loved for her clothes, but for herself; so wear the plain frocks mother took such pleasure in making for you, and let the panniers go. The least of us have some influence in this big world; and perhaps my little girl can do some good by showing others that a contented heart and a happy face are better ornaments than any Paris can give her. You want a locket, deary; so I send one that my mother gave me years ago. You will find father's face on one side, mine on the other; and when things trouble you, just look at your talisman, and I think the sunshine will come back again.”
Of course it did, for the best of all magic was shut up in the quaint little case that Polly wore inside her frock, and kissed so tenderly each night and morning. The thought that, insignificant as she was, she yet might do some good, made her very careful of her acts and words, and so anxious to keep head contented and face happy, that she forgot her clothes, and made others do the same. She did not know it, but that good old fashion of simplicity made the plain gowns pretty, and the grace of unconsciousness beautified their little wearer with the charm that makes girlhood sweetest to those who truly love and reverence it. One temptation Polly had already yielded to before the letter came, and repented heartily of afterward.
“Polly, I wish you'd let me call you Marie,” said Fanny one day, as they were shopping together.
“You may call me Mary, if you like; but I won't have any ie put on to my name. I'm Polly at home and I'm fond of being called so; but Marie is Frenchified and silly.”
“I spell my own name with an ie, and so do all the girls.”
“And what a jumble of Netties, Nellies, Hatties, and Sallies there is. How 'Pollie' would look spelt so!”
“Well, never mind; that was n't what I began to say. There's one thing you must have, and that is, bronze boots,” said Fan, impressively.
“Why must I, when I've got enough without?”
“Because it's the fashion to have them, and you can't be finished off properly without. I'm going to get a pair, and so must you.”
“Don't they cost a great deal?”