"No, I should hope not," said her mother. "Here are eleven pair, Rotha."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Were there not twelve?"
"Yes, ma'am. The other pair I have on."
"They are a great deal too thin for this time of year. Here are some thicker I have got for you. Sit down and put a pair of these on, and let me have those."
Every fibre of her nature rebelling, Rotha sat down to unbutton her boot. It was hard to keep silence, to speak "pleasantly" impossible. Tears were near. Rotha bent over her boot and prayed for help. And then the thought came, fragrant and sweet,—I am the servant of Christ; this is an opportunity to obey and please him.
And with that she was content. She put on the coarse stockings, which felt extremely uncomfortable. But then she could not get her boot on. She tugged at it in vain.
"It is no use," she said at last. "It will not go on, aunt Serena. I cannot wear my boots with these stockings."
"The boots must be too small," said Mrs. Busby. She came herself, and pushed and pinched and pulled at the boot. It would not go on.
"What do you get such tight-fitting boots for?" she said, sitting back on the floor, quite red in the face.