For girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and loom,
And not to drink the sunshine and the flowers’ sweet perfume.
“But out she skipped the meadows o’er and gazed into the sky,
Her heart o’erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why;
And to a merry tune she hummed: ‘Oh, Heaven only knows
Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose?’”
“Suppose I tell you what papa was saying about you last night?” continued Maybelle.
“Yes,” Floy answered, helplessly.
“He was saying that he needed two new salesgirls in his big dry-goods store in New York, and he wondered if any girls in Mount Vernon would like to go. He said he had thought of you, and that maybe old John Banks would be glad to have you find a situation and help earn your own living.”
Floy reddened, paled, then gasped: