Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the
small, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write--for she had
never been to school. If she should sell everything, why, there would be
more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father,
who was beginning to look shabby.

"But they won't," Barbara said to herself, sadly. "I can't expect them
to buy it all when I'm asking so much."

Down in the living-room, Ambrose North was inquiring restlessly for
Barbara. "Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "I know she's upstairs,
for you've told me so twice. What I want to know is, why doesn't she
come down?"

"She's busy at something, probably," returned Miriam, with forced
carelessness, "but I think she'll soon be through."

"Barbara is always busy," he answered, with a sigh. "I can't understand
it. Anyone might think she had to work for a living. By the way, Miriam,
do you need more money?"

"We still have some," she replied, in a low voice.

"How much?" he demanded.

"Less than a hundred dollars." She did not dare to say how much less.

"That is not enough. If you will get my check-book, I will write another
check."