“WHAT did you say?” This last sentence was addressed to a customer who had been standing for some seconds. “Green braid? No, we haven’t any to match that.”
“Are you sure?” questioned the young girl anxiously. “Haven’t you a little darker, then? that will do.”
“No, we haven’t!” sharp-voiced and spiteful.
“Saucy thing!” she added, as the girl turned away; “I told her I hadn’t; what business had she to ask again?”
“O, Nellie! I don’t think you are sure. I think I found some in your upper row of boxes yesterday which would answer for the sample.”
“Nonsense! as if you could tell without looking. I know I haven’t; I tumbled the whole lot over yesterday for a fussy woman, and I remember every shade in it. It is of no consequence, anyhow; a seven-cent braid!
“O, Jean! look here; let me see your photographs. Are they good?”
She had darted away to the counter below.
Marion stood for a moment irresolute, then moved toward the girl. “Let me see it, please; I think I can match it.”
The woman to whom she had sold a spool of thread turned at the sound of her voice and smiled on the girl. “Give it to her, Jennie, she will match it; she knows how,” she said. Marion answered the smile; her heart was warm over the simple words of commendation. She sought among the upper row of boxes for the one which her memory associated with yesterday’s shades, and found it. The girl made her seven-cent purchase and went away pleased, just as Nellie came back from her photographs.