“Nobody; we came to have a good home and plenty to eat. I have pretty clothes in there; I helped mamma make them,” and she nodded complacently toward the package on the chair.
“You helped indeed,” smiled the matron, glancing down at the diminutive creature before her.
“I did help! I can sew!” cried Jerusha, trembling with anger and weakness; “mamma taught me, and says I sew well for a child. See, here is my thimble,” and she took it from her pocket and placed it upon her thin finger.
“Yes, for a child; we do not expect much from a girl of ten. Let me see your clothes.”
This request brought a gratified smile to the grave lips of the little girl; she untied the package with deft fingers and took from it a pink cashmere gown, soft and fine in texture, made in the latest style and with artistic skill.
“Who gave you this lovely dress, child?”
“Mamma, I told you. We made it out of one she wore at boarding-school, and this, and this,” and she took up one of dark blue cashmere, and one of crimson, both of the finest grade.
“But, child, these beautiful dresses will be of no use here.”
“They will be of use,” cried Jerusha excitedly. “I heard mamma say that if my grandfather would take me to his home I would wear pretty clothes like these every day.”
“But you are not at your grandfather’s; you are in an orphan asylum, and must wear that uniform.”