think I will put on my pink linen, and my hat lined with pink chiffon
and trimmed with shaded roses. That particular shade of pink is just
right for my hair. I know quite well how I look in that gown and hat,
and I know, also, quite well how I shall look to the members of my
family assembled below. They all unanimously consider that I should
dress always in black silk, and a bonnet with a neat little tuft of
middle-aged violets, and black ribbons tied under my chin. I know I am
wicked to put on that pink gown and hat, but I shall do it. I wonder why
it amuses me to be made fun of. Thank fortune, I have a sense of humor.
If I did not have that it might have come to the black silk and the
bonnet with the tuft of violets, for the Lord knows I have not, after
all, so very much compared with what some women have. It troubles me to
think of that young fool rushing away and poor, dear little Peggy; but
what can I do? This pink gown is fetching, and how they will stare when
I go down!

Well, they did stare. How pretty this street is, with the elms arching
over it. I made quite a commotion, and they all saw me through their
eyeglasses of prejudice, except, possibly, Tom Price, Maria's husband. I
am certain I heard him say, as I marched away, "Well, I don't care; she
does look stunning, anyhow," but Maria hushed him up. I heard her say,
"Pink at her age, and a pink hat, and a parasol lined with pink!" Ada
really looked more disturbed than I have ever seen her. If I had been
Godiva, going for my sacrificial ride through the town, it could not
have been much worse. She made her eyes round and big, and asked, in a
voice which was really agitated, "Are you going out in that dress. Aunt
Elizabeth?" And Aunt Elizabeth replied that she certainly was, and
she went after she had exchanged greetings with the family and kissed
Peggy's tear-stained little face. Charles Edward's wife actually
straightened her spinal column, she was so amazed at the sight of me in
my rose-colored array. Charles Edward, to do him justice, stared at me
with a bewildered air, as if he were trying to reconcile his senses
with his traditions. He is an artist, but he will always be hampered by
thinking he sees what he has been brought up to think he sees. That is
the reason why he has settled down uncomplainingly in Cyrus's "Works,"
as he calls them, doing the very slight aesthetics possible in such a
connection. Now Charles Edward would think that sunburned grass