"A hundred dollars is a large price for a shawl," said my father, in his sober way.
"Oh, dear, no!" was my emphatic answer; "a hundred dollars is a low price for a shawl. Jane Wharton's cost five hundred."
"I'll think about it," said my father, turning from me rather abruptly.
When he came home at dinner-time, I was alone in the parlor, practicing a. new piece of music which my fashionable teacher had left me. He was paid three dollars for every lesson. My father smiled as he laid a hundred-dollar bill on the keys of the piano. I started up, and kissing him, said, with the ardor of a pleased girl—
"What a dear good father you are!"
The return was ample. He always seemed most pleased when he could gratify some wish or supply some want of his children. Ah! if we had been less selfish—less exacting!
It was hardly to be expected that my sisters would see me the possessor of a hundred-dollar shawl, and not desire a like addition to their wardrobes.
"I want a hundred dollars," said my sister Jane, on the next morning, as my father was about leaving for his store.
"Can't spare it to-day, my child," I heard him answer, kindly, but firmly.
"Oh, but I must have it," urged my sister.