"Here is something which will please you better:—this plaid silk," continued Mrs. Train. "Try it on, Agnes, and let Letty see how nicely it fits."
But Agnes would not try it on. Martha's corded silk had put her out of humour with all her own things. She declared that the plaid silk was poor, thin stuff, and looked more like domestic gingham than any thing else; the black silk was only fit for an old woman; and as for the blue, she hated the very sight of it. She wished she had never seen it. She wished she had laid out her money for useful things, like Letty. Where was the use of trying to dress, when some one else was perfectly sure to go beyond you?
"Where, indeed?" said Letty. "But, Agnes, some one is always sure to go beyond you, dress as much as you will. I know I thought Mrs. Trescott's cashmere shawl the very handsomest thing I ever saw till old Mrs. Trescott came; and hers was so much better that it made her daughter's look positively ordinary. I had the curiosity one day to ask Miss Catherine how much it cost; and she said she supposed about 'a thousand dollars.'"
"A thousand dollars!" echoed Mrs. Train and Agnes, in tones of amazement; and Mrs. Train added, "I wish I had half as much as that in the bank, for these children to begin the world upon."
"Yes, indeed: it would be a nice little fortune for one of us," continued Letty. "You know I went to Saratoga once with Mrs. Trescott and Miss Catherine, when Miss Emily was alive. Miss Catherine was anxious—as any young girl would be—to have pretty things to wear; but Mrs. Trescott only laughed, and said, 'You will see so much more dress than you could possibly put on, Kitty, that you will care nothing at all about your own.' And so it proved. Some of the ladies must have spent their whole time in dressing, I think; for they never wore the same dress twice. I heard one lady's maid say that her mistress had brought forty different dresses."
"Only think!" said Agnes. "I always envied you that time."
"You needn't," said Letty, sighing; "for it was a very sad time. We all hoped the water and the pure air would do Emily so much good;—and for a few days she did seem to revive; but she soon was down again, and there was the last hope gone. One could not care much for fine dress and display, with such a sufferer all the time before one's eyes. It used to seem cruel to me, sometimes, to see the people so gay, and hear the band playing, when that dear child was lying almost senseless for hours, or only reviving to fall into another convulsion.
"Some of them were very kind, too. That very lady who had the forty dresses, and who you would think, to see her, cared for nothing else, came to ask Mrs. Trescott if there was any thing she could do to help her; and she cried over Emily as if her heart would break. She told Mrs. Trescott that she had lost two little girls, about Emily's age, three or four years before."
"But do you think, Letty, that people who dress so much really think more about it than others?"
"Yes," replied Letty. "I know they must, unless they are very rich indeed. It takes all their time and thoughts. We had two young ladies staying at our house last winter, who went out a great deal. They were not rich, and made their own dresses; and I never saw them busy with any thing else as long as they stayed. It was a pair of undersleeves to be trimmed, or a flounce to alter, or a thin jacket to be made up,—from morning till night. I know they kept me busy doing up and ironing out, till I wished they were gone. Mrs. Trescott used to try to get them to read, and to be interested about poor people, and so on; but no: they never had any time! Mr. Trescott said, once, it was a pity they had not been apprenticed to a milliner, so as to turn their love of finery to some good account."