Molly’s face was a study. While Blanche was talking it passed from happy laughter to the gravest trouble. And as the older woman put her final question she shook her head almost dejectedly.
“I’ve never been to a—real party,” she said.
“No. You live so far away from a town.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that. You see, father didn’t just think dancin’ was right. An’ then there was always the farm. Mother died when I was a small kid. But I got my Sunday suit,” she added, brightening. “Maybe that would be too heavy, though. It’s black, and it isn’t a party frock. Then I thought of a skirt and a waist. I could fix up a waist. I got one that’s real silk. Only that’s black, too.”
A thrill of intense pity flooded Blanche’s heart. To her the pathos of the thing she was listening to was beyond words. Their meal was finished. They were only sitting over their tea. Suddenly she stood up, and a joyous smile lit her eyes.
“Here, Molly,” she cried, “stand up, and let’s measure. I believe we’re the same height.”
The girl obeyed her with a wondering smile. They stood back to back, and Blanche measured with her hand.
“Exactly,” she cried. Then she turned and studied the girl for some critical moments. “Yes, and just about the same build. Here,” she hurried on, “put your foot against mine. That’s it.”
“Sure, sure,” Blanche exclaimed, as the two feet came into contact. “My shoes will fit you, too. Oh, this is bully. My word, but you shall be the belle of that farmers’ ball, I promise you. Sit down, my dear, and I’ll tell you about it.”
Blanche sat again, and they gazed across the table at each other. Molly was all smiling hope and expectation, and Blanche was happy in the opportunity which chance had afforded her.