"I'm sure I don't know," Beth answered. "Pounds for Tom Briggs alone."
"Who's he?" was Aunt Grace Mary's horrified exclamation.
"Oh, only the horse—a dark bay with black points. I rode him a lot, and oh! it was nice! It was like poetry, like living it, you know, like being a poem one's self. And I'm glad I did it. If I should die for it, I couldn't regret it. And I shouldn't wonder if I did die, for I feel as if those knocks had fairly knocked me to bits."
"Nonsense, Beth, you silly child, don't talk like that," said Aunt Grace Mary. "What else do you owe?"
"Oh, then there's Mrs. Andrews, the confectioner's, bill."
"Confectioner's!" Aunt Grace Mary exclaimed. "O Beth! I never thought you were greedy."
"Well, I don't think I am," Beth answered temperately. "I've been very hungry, though. But I never touched any of those good things myself. I only got them for Charlotte when she had heavy work to do for the Secret Service of Humanity."
"The what?" Aunt Grace Mary demanded.
"The game we played. Then there's the hairdresser's bill, that must be pretty big. I had to get curls and plaits and combs and things, besides having my hair dressed for entertainments to which I was obliged to go——"
"Beth! are you mad?" Aunt Grace Mary interrupted. "You've never been to an entertainment in your life."