"Don't you think I ought to dress up for this dinner party, Sister?"
"Beyond washing your face and brushing your hair, I cannot very well see how a little girl sick in bed can dress up."
"You could do up my hair the way mother wears hers, and—and—oh, I have a beautiful new ribbon, pale blue with tiny white rosebuds sprinkled over it. We can twist it and put it around my head like a wreath, with the bow sticking up at one side. Let me see what else we can do—I know! In the middle drawer of the dresser, there is a cute little dressing sack with rosebuds made of white satin ribbon down the front instead of buttons. I just have to loop cords over them."
When Mary was "dressed up" to her taste, the nurse insisted that she must lean back against the pillows to rest.
"You must not overdo, or you will be worn out by the time your uncle comes home."
The little girl gave a sigh of content.
"Sister, you have made me so happy. I thought I could never be happy again, never!"
"I think you have done a great deal toward making yourself happy, Mary. You must expect to have many lonely hours; but at such times, you should try to remember how very, very much worse things could be. Suppose you were in the place of a little girl I heard of not long ago, whose father, mother, brothers, and sister all died of black diphtheria within two weeks. She had no good, kind uncle or other relatives to look after her, so there was nothing to do but to place her in an orphan asylum."
Mary was very quiet for some time. Then Liza came in to set the table.
"Wal, Miss May-ree, what yo' reckon Massa Frank gwine t' eat fo' his dinnah, no-how? Dem red roses, or meat an' 'tatahs an' veg'tubbles? Dem flowahs am mighty putty, honey; but ef dey's gwine to sot lak dat in de middle ob de table, dey won't be no room fo' de t'ings to eat; and' I reckon dis yeah chile 'll hab to sot dem on chairs, he! he! he!"