"My warm dresses—are not very nice," she said with some difficulty. "I thought I must look as well as I could."
"And I have forgotten that the season was changing! and left you without proper provision. You see, Rotha, I never had the charge of a young lady before. Never mind, dear; that will soon be made right. But put on something warm, no matter how it looks. You will take cold with that thin dress."
Rotha hesitated.
"I don't think you will like it, if I put on my old winter frock," she said.
"I would like it better than your getting sick. Change your dress by all means."
When Rotha came in again, she was a different figure. She had put on an old grey merino, which had once belonged to her mother and had been made over for her. At the time she had rejoiced much over it; now Rotha had got a new standard for judging of dresses, and she seemed to herself very "mean" looking. Truly, the old grey gown had been made a good while ago; the fashion had changed, and Rotha had grown; it was scant now and had lost even a distant conformity with prevailing modes. Moreover it was worn, and it was faded, and it was not even very clean. Rotha thought Mr. Digby would hardly endure it; she herself endured it only under stress of authority. He looked at her a little gravely.
"That's the best you have, is it? Never mind, Rotha; it is I who am to blame. I am very much ashamed of myself, for forgetting that winter was corning."
He had never known what it was, in all his life, to want a thick coat or a thin coat and not find it in his wardrobe; and that makes people forget.
"This will not do, do you think it will, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha tentatively.
"Better than to have you get sick. It will keep you warm, will it not? and we will soon have you fitted up with better supplies."