looked half so well in her own mother's time," they said.

Lillian White spoke of it to her mother one Sunday. She had been to
church, but her mother had remained at home on account of a cold.

"I tell you she looked dandy," said Lillian. Lillian was still as
softly and negatively pretty as ever. She was really charming because
she was not angular, because her skin was not thick and coarse,
because she did not look anaemic, but perfectly well fed and
nourished and happy.

"Who?" asked her mother.

"Maria Edgham. She was togged out to beat the band. Everything looked
sort of fadged up that she had before her own mother died. I tell you
she never had anything like the rig she wore to-day."

"What was it?" asked her mother interestedly, wiping her rasped nose
with a moist ball of handkerchief.

"Oh, it was the handsomest brown suit I ever laid my eyes on, with
hand-embroidery, and fur, and a big picture hat trimmed with fur and
chrysanthemums. She's an awful pretty little girl anyhow."

"She always was pretty," said Mrs. White, dabbing her nose again.

"If Ida don't look out, her step-daughter will beat her in looks,"
said Lillian.

"I never thought myself that Ida was anything to brag of, anyway,"