of blue and red which Aunt Martha had knit for Faith in the
winter. They were undoubtedly hideous. Faith loathed them as
she had never loathed anything before. Wear them she certainly
would not. They were still unworn in her bureau drawer.

"You'll have to wear the striped stockings after this," said Una.
"Just think how the boys in school will laugh at you. You know
how they laugh at Mamie Warren for her striped stockings and call
her barber pole and yours are far worse."

"I won't wear them," said Faith. "I'll go barefooted first, cold
as it is."

"You can't go barefooted to church to-morrow. Think what people
would say."

"Then I'll stay home."

"You can't. You know very well Aunt Martha will make you go."

Faith did know this. The one thing on which Aunt Martha troubled
herself to insist was that they must all go to church, rain or
shine. How they were dressed, or if they were dressed at all,
never concerned her. But go they must. That was how Aunt Martha
had been brought up seventy years ago, and that was how she meant
to bring them up.

"Haven't you got a pair you can lend me, Una?" said poor Faith
piteously.