Not very many people were abroad shopping; but Marion had her share of work, for those who came were in need of such commonplace useful things as spool cotton, or tape, or needles. She bent carefully over a drawer full of various colors, holding a tiny brown patch in her hand the while, trying to match the shade. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “that is not quite a match, but I am afraid it is the best I can do. If I were you I would take a shade darker rather than the lighter; my mother always does.”
The middle-aged woman, in a plain gossamer which covered her from head to foot, glanced up at the thoughtful young face and smiled.
“Does she?” she said. “I like to hear a young girl quote her mother’s judgment; it is apt to be wise judgment, I have noticed, as I think it is in this case. Show me darker shades, please.”
So another drawer was brought, and yet another, and the young head bent with the older one over them, and tried and tried again, and at last a satisfactory shade was found and the sale was made. Five cents’ worth of thread for fifteen minutes’ work!
“Why in the world did you putter so over that old maid and her patch? I should have told her I couldn’t match it and sent her about her business fifteen minutes ago.”
It was the girl whose stand was next to Marion who offered this bit of advice, while the “old maid” in question was but a few steps away from them looking at pin balls.
Marion turned a warning glance in her direction, and lowered her voice to answer: “Because I couldn’t find a match sooner. We went over all the thread drawers on that side, but I think we secured the exact shade at last.”
“What does it signify? Nothing but brown cotton. Wasn’t the patch part cotton? I thought so. The idea of making such an ado over a match for cheap goods like that! I wouldn’t fuss with such customers, I can tell you. Five cents’ worth of goods and fifty cents’ worth of bother. You couldn’t have done more for her if she had been your sister.”
Marion looked after the plain woman thoughtfully, then looked down at the tiny pin she wore. “I am not sure but she is. Anyhow, I was bound to endeavor to please her. I’m an Endeavorer, you know.” She gave the pin a significant touch as she spoke. It was very small—almost too small to attract attention—but the letters “C. E.” were, after all, quite distinct.
“O, bother!” said her neighbor, speaking contemptuously, “so am I; at least so far as wearing the pin is concerned. I wear it because it is pretty, and I have so few ornaments that I have to make the most of them; but as for putting sentiment into spools of cotton and balls of tape, I can’t do it; the things don’t match.”