She looked down at the tight little black gown.
“I t’ought o’ that,” said the poor little thing uncertainly, “but I haven’t got nothink nicer than what this is.”
She had thought of that. The tears were in my eyes as I turned to the cretonne curtain and pulled it aside.
“Look, Katinka,” I said; “you are going to wear this.”
There hung the white lady’s-cloth in all its bravery of chiffon and fichu and silver buttons. Katinka looked once at that splendour and smiled patiently, as one who is wonted to everything but surprises.
“La, ma’am,” she humoured me, pretending to appreciate my jest.
When at last she understood, the poor little soul broke down and cried on the foot of the bed. I know of no sadder sight than the tears of one to whom they are the only means of self-expression.
Never did gown fit so beautifully. Never was one of so nearly the proper length. Never was such elegance. When she was quite ready, the red ring and red bracelet having been added at her request, Katinka stood on a chair to have a better view in the little mirror above my washbasin, and she stepped down awe-struck.
“O, ma’am,” she said in a whisper, “I look like I was ready to be laid out.”
Then she went to the poor, tawdry things of her own which she had brought to my room, and selected something. It was a shabby plush book decorated with silk flowers and showing dog-eared gilt leaves.