Maura bought a dress of heliotrope silk, elaborately trimmed with white lace, and as the bride truly observed, "Fit for a princess."
But the heiress of Whichello had a lodging in all our hearts, and when I, one midwinter morning, saw her distraught with a troubled look in her soft brown eyes, I was grieved, and begged her to confide in me.
"If I do, you cannot help me, Gloria," said Maura. "The fact is, I'm short of money."
"Not an unusual state of affairs," rose to my lips, but the words changed as I uttered them.
"Poor Maura! Surely you have a little left?"
"Only these," and she drew out two shillings.
"Well, you must draw on my little bank, until your uncle sends your next remittance," was my reply.
"It isn't any use. Gloria, you are nice, and sweet, but your money would only be a drop in the ocean! I'm not to have any money all next quarter. This letter came this morning. Read it."
I did. It was a letter from Maura's guardian, who informed her that he desired to give her an object lesson in thrift, and, therefore, would hold her next remittance—which had already been anticipated—over. He also intimated that any applications to him would be useless.
"Well, things might be worse," was my comment, as I returned the letter. "You must let me be your banker and must economise, and be prudent till the next cheque arrives."