I was in a seventh heaven of delight. My father picked up the books
and began to read, paying no attention to our ecstasies over dresses and
ribbons, the boxful of laces, or the little shell-covered case holding a
few ornaments in gold and silver and jet.

We women did not stop until we had explored every corner of that trunk
and the two packing boxes. Then I picked up a napkin.

"What are these for?" I asked curiously.

My father slammed his book shut. I had never seen such a look on his
face.

"How old are you, Mary?" he demanded suddenly.

I told him that I was going on fifteen.

"And you never saw a table napkin?"

His tone was bitter and accusing. I did n't understand--how could I?
Father began to talk, his words growing more and more bitter. Mother
defended herself hotly. To-day I know that justice was on her side.
But in that first adolescent self-consciousness my sympathies were all
with father. Mother had neglected us--she had not taught us to use
table napkins! Becky Sharp used them. People in history used them.
I felt sure that Great-Aunt Martha would have been horrified, even in
heaven, to learn I had never even seen a table napkin.

Our parents' quarrel dimmed the ecstasy of the "personal belongings."
From that time we used napkins and a table-cloth on Sundays--that is,