hing down, as she spoke, the folds of her own gown.
She never wore out anything; she moved carefully and sat carefully;
she did a good deal of fancy-work, but she was always very
particular, even when engaged in the daintiest toil, to cover her
gown with an apron, and she always held her thin-veined hands high.
She charged this upon her niece Maria when she had her new black
clothes. "Now, Maria," said she, "there is one thing I want you to
remember, here is nothin'--" (Aunt Maria elided her final "g" like
most New-Englanders, although she was not deficient in education, and
even prided herself upon her reading.) "Black is the worst thing in
the world to grow shiny. Folks can talk all they want to about black
bein' durable. It isn't. It grows shiny. And if you will always
remember one thing when you are at home, to wear an apron when you
are doin' anything, and when you are away, to hold your hands high,
you will gain by it. There is no need of anybody gettin' the front
breadths of their dresses all shiny by rubbin' their hands on them.
When you are at school you must remember and hold your school-books
so they won't touch your dress. Then there is another thing you must
remember, not to move your arms any more than you can help, that
makes the waist wear out under the arms. There isn't any need of your
movin' your arms much if any when you are in school, that I can see,
and when you come home you can change your dress. You might just as
well wear out your colored dresses when you are home. Nobody is goin'
to see you. If anybody comes in that I think is goin' to mind, you
can just slip up-stairs, and put on your black dress. It isn't as if
you had a little sister to take your things--they ought to be worn
out."

It therefore happened that Maria was dressed the greater part of the
time, in her own home, where she missed her mother most, in
bright-colored array, and in funeral attire outside. She told her
father about it, but he had not a large income, and it had been
severely taxed by his wife's almost tragic illness and death.
Besides, if the truth were known, he disliked to see Maria in
mourning, and the humor of the thing also appealed to him.

"You had better wear what your aunt says, dear. You feel just the
same in your heart, don't you?" asked Harry Edgham, with that light
laugh of his, which always so shocked his serious little daughter.

"Yes, sir," she replied, with a sob.

"Well, then, do just as your aunt