Lethie's under lip trembled a little. "Aunt Ailsie," she said, "the reason I hain't a-playing is, my clothes looks so quare."
She looked down at her dark, heavy linsey skirt, coarse little shoes, and ill-fitting pink-calico waist.
"What's the matter with 'em?" inquired Aunt Ailsie.
"I don't know; I allowed they was all right till yesterday. But sence Miss Isabel come in, they look so quare, and I hain't aiming to shame Fulty by playing with him. He axed me, but I wouldn't."
Aunt Ailsie scrutinized Isabel's simple white linen dress.
"Why, she hain't dressed no finer than you," she said.
"No, but she's different—her clothes sets so good on her. I think she's the prettiest woman ever I seed."
Aunt Ailsie looked at the lovely, wistful little face turned up to hers—the skin of milky whiteness, the big, heavily lashed gray eyes, the brave little mouth, the mass of pale golden hair drawn tightly back from forehead and temples, and twisted in a hard knot at the back.
"I don't see as she's any ahead of you on looks," she decided.
"Oh, I never did have no looks," said Lethie, deprecatingly; "but," earnestly, "I wisht I did have some clothes!"