"Yes, I reckon."
And Celestia Ann hung up her sun-bonnet behind the kitchen door, and set to work at once with her wonted energy, while Mrs. Keith and Mildred withdrew to the bedroom of the latter to examine into the condition of her wardrobe, and consult as to needed repairs and additions.
They quickly decided that no new dresses should be purchased, and very little shopping of any kind done until her arrival in Philadelphia, as she could of course buy to much better advantage there, and learn what were the prevailing fashions, before having the goods made up.
Mrs. Keith had never made dress a matter of primary importance with herself or with her children, yet thought it well enough to conform to the fashions sufficiently to avoid being conspicuous for singularity of attire.
"We must give thought enough to the matter to decide how our clothes are to be made," she said, "and it is easier to follow the prevailing style than to contrive something different for ourselves; provided it be pretty and becoming; for I think it a duty we owe our friends to look as well as we can."
And on this principle she was desirous that Mildred's dress should be entirely suitable to her age and station, handsome and fashionable enough to ensure her against being an eyesore and annoyance to Mrs. Dinsmore, whose guest she was to be.
"The fashions are so slow in reaching these western towns that I know we must be at least a year or two behind," she remarked in a lively tone, as she turned over and examined Mildred's best dress—a pretty blue black silk, almost as good as new. "That doesn't trouble me so long as we are at home; but I don't want you to look outré to our relations and their friends, because that would be a mortification to them as well as to yourself. So though this is perfectly good, I think it will be best to try to match it and have it remodeled."
"Mother," said Mildred, "when it comes to buying dresses for myself how I shall miss you! I'm afraid I shall make some sad mistakes."
The young girl looked really troubled and anxious as she spoke and her mother answered in a kindly reassuring tone,
"I am not afraid to trust to your taste or judgment, so you need not be."
"But I shall not know where to go to find what I want, or whether the price asked is a fair one."
"Well, my dear child, even these trifling cares and anxieties we may carry to our kind heavenly Father, feeling sure that so a way will be provided out of the difficulty. Probably your aunt or uncle, or some other friend, will go with you."
The mother's tone was so cheerful and confident that Mildred caught her spirit and grew gay and light-hearted over her preparations.
Although the dressmaking was deferred, there was still enough to be done in the few days of the allotted time, to keep both mother and daughter very busy; which was just as well, as it left them no leisure to grieve over the approaching separation.
The news that she was going so far away and to be absent so long, created some consternation in the little coterie to which Mildred belonged.
Claudina Chetwood and Lu Grange declared themselves almost inconsolable, while Wallace Ormsby was privately of the opinion that their loss was as nothing compared to his.
Months ago he had decided that life would be a desert without Mildred to share it with him; but he had never found courage to tell her so, for he feared the feeling was not reciprocated—that she had only a friendly liking for him.
He had hoped to win her heart in time, but now the opportunity was to be taken from him and given to others. It was not a cheerful prospect; and Mildred was so busy there seemed no chance of getting a word alone with her.
"My mother tells me you are going away, Mildred, on a long journey and for a lengthened stay?" Mr. Lord remarked inquiringly, and with a regretful tone in his voice, as he shook hands with her after the weekly evening service.
He had been absent from town for a week or two.
"Yes," she returned gayly, putting aside with determination the thought of the partings that must wrench her heart at the last. "I am all ready, trunk packed and everything, and expect to start to-morrow morning."
"Ah, it's unfortunate. We shall miss you sadly. May I—"
But some one called to him from the other side of the room; he was obliged to turn away without finishing his sentence, and Wallace Ormsby seized the opportunity to step up and offer his arm to Mildred.
She accepted it and they walked on in silence till they were quite out of earshot of the rest of the congregation.
Then Wallace opened his lips to speak, but the words he wanted would not come; he could only stammer out a trite remark about the weather.
"Yes; it's beautiful," said Mildred. "I do hope it will last so, at least till we reach the Wabash. However, we go in a covered vehicle, and I suppose will not get wet even if it should rain."
"I wish you weren't going!" cried Wallace impetuously. "No, not that either; for I think, I hope, the journey will do you good: but—O Mildred, I cannot bear the thought that you may—that somebody else will win you away from me. I—I don't presume to say that I have any right, but I love you dearly, and always shall, and I do think I could make you happy if you only could return it," he went on speaking fast, now that he had found his tongue: "O Mildred, do you think you could?"
"I don't know, Wallace," she said, her voice trembling a little; "I have a very great respect and esteem for you, affection too," she added with some hesitation, and feeling the hot blood surge over her face at the words, "but I don't think it's quite the sort you want."
"You love somebody else?" he whispered hoarsely.
"No, no: there is no one I like better than I do you. But we are both very young and—"
"Perhaps you might learn to like me in time?" he queried eagerly, tremulously, as one hoping even against hope.
"Yes: though I do like you now: but it ought to be something stronger, you know, and I couldn't make any promises now, and neither must you."
"I should be glad to," he said, "for I am perfectly certain I should never repent."
He bade her good night at the gate, saying he would not make it good-bye if he might come to see her off in the morning.
"Certainly, Wallace," she said: "you are like one of the family; you have seemed that to all of us ever since your great kindness to us last summer."
"Don't speak of it," he answered hastily, "you conferred a great obligation in allowing me, for it was the greatest pleasure in life to be permitted to share your burdens."
Chapter Third.
"How poor a thing is pride!"
—Daniel.
The parting was no slight trial to her who went or those who stayed behind, particularly the loving, tender mother. But both she and Mildred bore it bravely, though the heart of the latter almost failed her as she felt the clinging arms
