"I wish I could have all my dresses from Paris. Why,
Daisy, you've grown handsome."
"Nonsense!" said Miss Macy; "she always was, only you didn't
see it."
"Style is more than a face," remarked Miss St. Clair
cavalierly. Somehow I felt that this little lady was not in a
good mood towards me. I boded mischief; for being nearly of an
age, we were together in most of our classes, studied the same
things and recited at the same times. There was an opportunity
for clashing.
They soon ran off, all four, to see their friends and
acquaintances and learn the news of the school. I was left
alone, making my arrangement of clothes and things in my
drawer and my corner of the closet; and I found that some
disturbance, in those few moments, had quite disarranged the
thoughts in my heart. They were peaceful enough before. There
was some confusion now. I could not at first tell what was
uppermost; only that St. Clair's words were those that most
returned to me. "She has changed. "_Had_ I changed? or was I
going to change? was I going to enter the lists of fashion
with my young companions, and try who would win the race? No
doubt my mother could dress me better than almost any of their
mothers could dress them; what then? would this be a triumph?
or was this the sort of name and notoriety that became and
befitted a servant of Jesus? I could not help my dresses being
pretty; no, but I could help making much display of them.
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