pain of her trampled pride, sold the grape jug and went away,
believing that her great-grandmother must have turned over in
her grave at the moment of the transaction. Old Lady Lloyd
felt like a traitor to her traditions.

But she went unflinchingly to a big store and, guided by that
special Providence which looks after simple-minded old souls
in their dangerous excursions into the world, found a
sympathetic clerk who knew just what she wanted and got it for
her. The Old Lady selected a very dainty muslin gown, with
gloves and slippers in keeping; and she ordered it sent at
once, expressage prepaid, to Miss Sylvia Gray, in care of
William Spencer, Spencervale.

Then she paid down the money--the whole price of the jug,
minus a dollar and a half for railroad fare--with a grand,
careless air and departed. As she marched erectly down the
aisle of the store, she encountered a sleek, portly,
prosperous man coming in. As their eyes met, the man started
and his bland face flushed crimson; he lifted his hat and
bowed confusedly. But the Old Lady looked through him as if he
wasn't there, and passed on with not a sign of recognition
about her. He took one step after her, then stopped and turned
away, with a rather disagreeable smile and a shrug of his
shoulders.

Nobody would have guessed, as the Old Lady swept out, how her
heart was seething with abhorrence and scorn. She would not
have had the courage to come to town, even for Sylvia's sake,
if she had thought she would meet Andrew Cameron. The mere