“That? Oh, that’s a niece of that frumpy Miss Hansford. You’ve heard of her, of course. The girl’s name is Elithe,—rather a pretty name, too. She’s from the wild and woolly West, Miners’ Camp, or something in Montana. Paul has the queerest notions about some things. He has always liked the aunt, and is polite to her niece, just as he is to every one. I believe the old maid asked him to take charge of her to-day. Do you think her pretty? I wish you could have seen her on the boat the day she came. Such a guy, and such baggage,—actually tied with a rope!”
“Not, really?”
“Yes, really. Hope to die if it wasn’t; and she has on an old bathing suit of mine which was sent in a missionary box from our church in Washington to the Rev. Roger Hansford. That’s her father. I can’t be mistaken. The buttons and braid were of a peculiar kind. I never liked it, and only wore it at Long Branch a few times. I knew it in a minute. There was a riding cap of mine in the same box. I wonder if she has that and will appear in it some day? No, I don’t think her very pretty. Perhaps she would be if her clothes were not so back-woodsy. She was at church last Sunday in a made-over changeable silk, with small sleeves, gathered just a little at the top. Not material enough to make them larger, I suppose. Probably that was in some box like my bathing suit. Her aunt sent word for me to call. Think of it!”
“Have you called?” the first speaker asked, and Clarice replied: “I guess not much! Shan’t, either; although Paul wants me to do so. He’s very democratic, you know.”
“Yes, but an awfully nice fellow, and you are to be congratulated.”
“That’s so,” Clarice assented, and, opening the door of her bath room, she walked away, followed by her friend, with no suspicion that Elithe had heard every word.
If she could have gotten out she would, but she was not quite dressed, and could only sit and listen. She did not care so much for what was said of herself as of her belongings,—the silk dress she had thought so fine and her poor old trunk. The latter had been her father’s, carried by him on many a journey in the Western wilds. The silk was her mother’s wedding gown, and every time she wore it she seemed to feel the touch of her mother’s loving hands in its soft folds. The sleeves were small, she knew, for the pattern was scant, but just how small they were she never realized until now, or just how small she was herself, with everything pertaining to her. She heard Paul calling down the passage way, “Clarice, Clarice, are you ready?” and knew he was waiting to escort his fiancée home.
“I hate her!” she said to herself. “To make fun of me and she does it to him, too, no doubt.”
This was the bitterest thought of all,—to be made light of and ridiculed to Paul Ralston, and Elithe cried harder than she ever remembered having cried before. That the bathing suit had belonged to Clarice she was sure, for on the lining of the belt were the initials, “C. P.” She could see them now on the floor where the wet garments lay, and she put her foot upon it, spurning it from her.
“I’ll never wear it again!” she said, “nor the cap, either. It was in the same box. It was hers!”