"But, mamma—little bits of things! It wouldn't take much!"
"You naturally feel that there is no bottom to papa's pocket, Catherine; that he has only to put his hand in and take out what he likes; but, my dear, that isn't true. Papa cannot do it any more than you can."
"Then we can't have our society," cried Catherine.
Her lip trembled, and her face flushed pink with the sense of disappointment.
"I didn't say that," said her mother, smiling. "Have the society by all means, and carry out your plans. That can be done without money."
"But, mamma, how can it? What do you mean?"
"The how I must leave to you. Set your wits to work, and you will find out. There are plenty of ways in which to please sick people besides buying them things. Notice carefully when you are there; ask Mrs. Banister; use your eyes. Things will suggest themselves. What sick people enjoy most are little surprises to vary their dull days, and the sense that some one is loving and thinking about them. Small unexpected pleasures count for more than their worth with them. Now, dear, run away. Consult with the others, and when you decide what you want to do, come to me, and I will do what I can to help you in ways that do not cost money."
Catherine looked more hopeful, though not altogether convinced.
"I'll see what they say," she remarked thoughtfully. Then, after lingering a moment, as if in hopes of something more, she ran downstairs again.
She found the members of the future society looking rather crestfallen. They had all rushed home to propound their plan, and each of their mothers in turn had raised pretty much the same objections to it which Mrs. Newcombe had raised, and had not tempered their denials with any fresh suggestions. Catherine's report had, therefore, rather the effect of raising their spirits.