“Hold them out like that till they’re dry. If the spots come off when you wash your hands, I’ll put on more. When you see them you will think not to bite your nails, and you must keep them on for a week. By that time your nails will grow out, and then I’ll show you how to take proper care of them.”
“Oh, Aunt Kate, please! Must I wear them like that to the table—right before Uncle Ben? What will he say?”
“Uncle Ben will think as I do, that the black spots look no worse than the close-bitten edges.”
Tears came in Betsy’s eyes. It was not like Aunt Kate to punish. For a moment she stood with quivering lips, looking down at the queer, ink-spotted finger-tips. Then she straightened up.
“I can stand it a week. You can stand anything you got to stand. I guess this’ll be a warnin’ to me.”
Not another whisper of rebellion came from her lips. She wore her badges of disgrace manfully, hiding her hands, if she could, when any one came near her. Uncle Ben looked at them, then at Mrs. Johns, but never a word did he say, and Betsy to this day does not know what he thought about them.
Aunt Kate replaced the spots as they came off, and the week dragged by.
Then, one morning, Aunt Kate came into Betsy’s room, and instead of the bottle of ink, she carried a dainty little box.
“See here, Betsy.”
Betsy looked, and saw, under the satin-lined lid, a tiny pair of curved scissors, a nail file, a buffer with a silver handle, a box of rosy ointment—all the things that go to make up a manicure set.