"I give you every cent I can spare from my business, girls," said Mr. Lyle, in a vexed tone, "and this time I strained a point and pinched myself in order that little Queenie might have a new dress and go to the ball, too."
"But they have spent every cent upon themselves!" cried pretty little Queenie with the tears of vexation standing in her pansy-blue eyes. "The dressing-room is littered all over with their finery yet they want me to wear that horrid green silk of Syd's! A pretty fright I should look!"
"Never mind, dear, you can stay at home with your old papa. Your time will come after awhile when the girls are married and out of the way," said her father kindly, as he drew his arm about her. "Maybe it is true that I have spoiled you, dear, and that you are too young to go to such a grand ball."
"No, I am not, papa. I am quite old enough, and I know how to dance, and I love to dance, and I will go to the ball," exclaimed the pretty, willful little creature, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
"But, Queenie, what on earth will you wear?" asked the poor, tired mother, who was quite worn out with the worry of keeping herself and her two elder girls well-dressed. "I have no money to give you a new dress."
Queenie stood meditating, with her head perched on one side like a little bird, her slender, arched brows puckered into a thoughtful frown.
"I'll tell you," said she at length, "I shall sell my painted fan—the white satin one that Uncle Rob sent me from Paris. It is worth fifteen dollars at least, and I can certainly get five for it. Five dollars will buy lots of white tarleton, and I can make the dress myself. There are plenty of flowers in the garden, so you see I can make a toilet for the ball," she added, half laughing.
"Sell Uncle Rob's gift!" cried mamma and the girls in concert.
"Necessity knows no law!" answered Queenie, dancing out of the room to avoid their remonstrances.
"Mr. Lyle, you really should not allow her to sell her uncle's beautiful gift!" exclaimed Mrs. Lyle, in a vexed tone.