sunbonnet, the long-sleeved gingham apron, and the stout calfskin shoes
were no index of Ann's taste. They were of her mother's choosing, and
Ann's mother was not a woman whose decisions could be lightly set
aside.

In a bureau drawer in the guest-chamber of the little cottage was a
dress that Ann had been longing to put on for six months. It was of
dainty white organdy, made to wear over a slip of the palest green silk,
with ribbons to match. And carefully wrapped in a box, with many
coverings of tissue paper, was a pair of beautiful pale green kid shoes.
Ann had worn them only once, and that was in the early spring, when she
had gone to a cousin's wedding in the city. Many a Sunday morning since,
she had wept bitter tears into that drawer, at not being allowed to wear
the costume to church.

"Just see how beautiful they are, mother," she would say tearfully,
touching the beribboned dress with admiring fingers and caressing the
shoes. "By the time I have another chance to wear them in the city they
will be too small for me, and I shall have to give them to Betty. I
don't see why I can't wear them out here."

"Because they are not suitable, Ann," her mother would answer. "You
would look ridiculous going through the fields and along the dusty roads
in such finery, and among all these plainly attired country people you
would appear overdressed. I hope that my little daughter is too much of
a lady in her tastes to ever want to call attention to herself in that
way, especially at church."

"But, mother," the little girl would sob protestingly, and then Mrs.
Fowler's decided voice would silence her.