gift so delicately offered, especially when she knew that its acceptance meant so much to her daughter.
“Amy! Amy!” called cousin Joan, on the morning of the ride to the County Fair. “Come upstairs for a minute.” Then, when Amy stood before her, “There, I just wanted to see how you looked. Turn around so that I can see the back of the skirt. Well, it’s surprising what your mother can do with the needle. She’s fixed that so’s you could n’t tell it from a tailor-made. I don’t believe those Rockley girls will look a bit better than you.”
“Thank you, cousin Joan,” said Amy, turning around, as the invalid wished. Since Amy’s acquaintance with Brenda and Julia had shown itself to be something fairly substantial, cousin Joan had been much more sympathetic than formerly. On the evening of the wedding, for example, she had lain awake until Amy returned, and had urged her to tell her everything that had happened. She asked for details that poor Amy had to admit that she had not noticed,—the length of the bride’s train, the kind of flowers that she carried, the color of Mrs. Barlow’s gown, and the names of many of the guests. Although she was rather tired, Amy sat down on the edge of the bed, and told an interesting story, not even forgetting the cutting of the wedding cake, and the fun that had grown out of that.
Amy could tell a good story when she wished, and she tried to make her descriptions as picturesque as possible, for she realized how narrow the invalid’s outlook was, and
