"Cannot you read, Rhoda?" I asked.
"Yes, I can read some. I can't read words, but I can tell some of the letters."
"Have you never gone to school?"
"No; I always had to work. Poor folks have got to work, you know."
"Yes, but that need not prevent your learning to read. I can teach you myself; I will, if you like."
"I guess your aunt won't calculate to get me to work for her, and then have me spend my time learning to read. First you know, she'll send me off."
"She will like it perfectly well. Grandmother is in authority here now; I will go and ask her." This I knew would seem to her decisive.
"What did she say?" said Rhoda, rather eagerly, when I returned.
"She says yes, by all means; and that if you learn to read before aunt comes home, you shall have a new dress, and I may choose it for you."
Now it was no sinecure, teaching Rhoda, but she won the dress,—a lilac print, delicate and pretty enough for any one. I undertook to make the dress, but she accomplished a good part of it herself. She said Miss Reeny used to show her about sewing. Whatever was to be done with hands she learned with surprising quickness. Grandmother suggested that the reading lessons should be followed by a course in writing. Before the lameness was well over, Rhoda could write, slowly indeed, yet legibly.