Elliott came along and bade her begone home.

"I don't think, Faith, that you should have done that," said Una,
a little reproachfully, after Lida had gone. "You'll have to
wear your good boots every day now and they'll soon scuff out."

"I don't care," cried Faith, still in the fine glow of having
done a kindness to a fellow creature. "It isn't fair that I
should have two pairs of shoes and poor little Lida Marsh not
have any. NOW we both have a pair. You know perfectly well,
Una, that father said in his sermon last Sunday that there was no
real happiness in getting or having--only in giving. And it's
true. I feel FAR happier now than I ever did in my whole life
before. Just think of Lida walking home this very minute with
her poor little feet all nice and warm and comfy."

"You know you haven't another pair of black cashmere stockings,"
said Una. "Your other pair were so full of holes that Aunt
Martha said she couldn't darn them any more and she cut the legs
up for stove dusters. You've nothing but those two pairs of
striped stockings you hate so."

All the glow and uplift went out of Faith. Her gladness
collapsed like a pricked balloon. She sat for a few dismal
minutes in silence, facing the consequences of her rash act.

"Oh, Una, I never thought of that," she said dolefully. "I
didn't stop to think at all."

The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, ribbed stockings