_She_. You are a pretty good boy, after all; but really I have not a
decent pair to my name: that last pair of light ones got lemonade all
over them, and it took the color out, of course.

_He_. Now I'll tell you what! I can take them for you on my way down
town, and leave them to be dyed, and then you can do some fancy-work
on their backs; and what more do you want?

_She_ (doubtfully). But would black gloves do?

_He_ (conclusively). Of course they would for a thing like that. Fetch
them out, and be quick about it; and bring your money too, for I
had better buy the tickets this morning, and then we shall have some
choice as to seats.

So it was arranged. Marjory's lofty mind did wince a little at the
idea of dyed gloves, but she tried not to think of it. John brought
the objectionable kids home in time for elaborate decoration "on their
backs;" but, as he watched her in the pauses of his reading aloud,
they both observed with anxiety that the black "came off a little,"
and Marjory asked him to warn her if he saw her let them go anywhere
near her face.

Two children never enjoyed a holiday more than these two enjoyed that
concert. Dyed gloves and all other sublunary trials were forgotten:
Marjory did not touch her face once; and when the happy evening was
over, the gloves were put away with a loving pat on their backs, and
John had risen ten degrees in Marjory's respect.