"Clothes," declared Alma, her voice quavering between tears and indignation, "are the most important things in the world. It doesn't matter how pretty a girl is—if her dress is dowdy, no one will notice her."
"And you must remember, Nancy, that she will be compared with girls who will be sure to be wearing the freshest, smartest and daintiest things," added Mrs. Prescott. Nancy began to laugh. They argued with her as if she were some stingy old master of the house instead of a slip of a girl of seventeen. But there was some truth in what Alma had said, and Nancy knew what agonies would torment her if she felt that she fell a whit below any girl at the dance in point of dress. Nancy could sympathize with her there—only it was quite out of the question that both she and Alma should have new dresses. She thought hard a moment. There was not very much left in the family budget to carry them through the remainder of the month—but then she might let the grocer's and butcher's bills run over, or, better still, she might charge at one of the city department stores where the Prescotts still kept an account. It would be too bad if Alma's first dance should be spoiled, even if the couch did go in its shabby plush for another month or so. Five yards of silk would come to about fifteen dollars—new slippers not less than seven, silk stockings, two—that made twenty-four dollars—thirty to give a margin for odds and ends like lining and trimming. Alma would need a pretty evening dress when she went off to school, and she might as well have it now.
"Well, listen, you poor old darling," she said slowly. "To-day's Saturday. If we trot in town on Monday and get the material, we could easily make up a pretty dress for you to wear on Friday night. Let's see——"
"She could have a pale blue taffeta," Mrs. Prescott suggested, who was in her element when the subject turned to the matter of clothes, "made perfectly plain—with a broad girdle—or you could have a girdle and shoulder-knots of silver ribbon—and wear silver slippers with it. It would be dear with a round neck, and tiny little sleeves, and a short, bouffant skirt. You could wear my old rose-colored evening wrap,—it's still in perfect condition."
"That would be scrumptious!" shrieked Alma, flinging her arms about them both. "You two are angelic dumplings, that's what you are."
"Monday morning, then," said Nancy. "We'd better take an early train."
When her mother and sister had gone to bed, she took out her little account book and began to figure, then all at once she flung the pencil down in disgust at herself.
"Alma's right. I'm turning into a regular old miser. I'm not going to bother—I'm not going to bother. But—but somebody's got to." She frowned, staring at the small old-fashioned picture of her father, which smiled gaily at her from the top of the desk. "You left that little job to me, didn't you?" she said aloud, and the memory of some words her father had once spoken to her laughingly came back to her mind—"You're my eldest son, Nancy—mind you take care of the women."
"Only I'm jolly well sick of being a boy, Daddy," she said, as she jumped into bed. "I'll let the first person who steps forward take the job."