town the week before, called
on some one and learned all these things herself. She should have
remembered how her clothing would look, before she wore it in public
places. Now she knew, and her dreams were over. She must go home to
feed chickens, calves, and pigs, wear calico and coarse shoes, and with
averted head, pass a library all her life. She sobbed again.

"For pity's sake, honey, what's the matter?" asked the voice of the
nearest neighbour, Wesley Sinton, as he seated himself beside Elnora.
"There, there," he continued, smearing tears all over her face in an
effort to dry them. "Was it as bad as that, now? Maggie has been just
wild over you all day. She's got nervouser every minute. She said we
were foolish to let you go. She said your clothes were not right, you
ought not to carry that tin pail, and that they would laugh at you. By
gum, I see they did!"

"Oh, Uncle Wesley," sobbed the girl, "why didn't she tell me?"

"Well, you see, Elnora, she didn't like to. You got such a way of
holding up your head, and going through with things. She thought some
way that you'd make it, till you got started, and then she begun to see
a hundred things we should have done. I reckon you hadn't reached that
building before she remembered that your skirt should have been pleated
instead of gathered, your shoes been low, and lighter for hot September
weather, and a new hat. Were your clothes right, Elnora?"

The girl broke into hysterical laughter. "Right!" she cried. "Right!
Uncle Wesley, you should have seen me among them! I was a picture!
They'll never forget me. No, they won't get the chance, for they'll see
me again to-morrow!

"Now that is what I call spunk, Elnora! Downright grit," said Wesley
Sinton. "Don't you let them laugh you out. You've helped Margaret and me
for years at harvest and busy times, what you've earned must amount to
quite a sum. You can get yourself a good many clothes with it."

"Don't mention clothes, Uncle Wesley," sobbed Elnora, "I don't care now
how I look. If I don't go back all of them will know it's because I am
so poor I can't buy my books."

"Oh, I don't know as you are so dratted poor," said Sinton meditatively.
"There are three hundred acres of good land, with fine timber as ever
grew on it."

"It takes all we can earn to pay the tax, and mother wouldn't cut a tree
for her life."

"Well then, maybe, I'll be compelled to cut one for her," suggested
Sinton. "Anyway, stop tearing your