"Alton Havenith would never let that dear little thing have anything
as modish as those clothes. He'd keep her for a living illustration
to his poem-books till he died. And we're making a lot on that
Sagawinna Courthouse thing.... And we haven't any daughter."

And Mr. Morrow, remembering a seven-year-old with blue eyes and
yellow hair, who had never grown old enough to ask for French-heeled
shoes and picture hats, said only, "That's what I thought, too."

Joy, blissfully ignorant that she had been given a good deal of a
present, kissed them both ecstatically on receiving a long, large
pasteboard box, and almost ran home. She was so eager, indeed, to
get upstairs and try on her finery that she quite upset a Neo-Celtic
poet who had come to see if Grandfather would write an article about
him, and was standing on the doorstep on one foot in a dreamy
manner. He was rather small, and so not difficult to fall over. She
did not stop to see if he was injured; she merely recovered herself,
grasped her precious boxes more closely and sped on upstairs,
thinking how pleasant it was that she was no relation to _him_.
To have even fine poetry written about you was bad enough; it must
be much worse if the poetry was bad, too.

When she opened her box she found that Mrs. Morrow had seen and
bought something else for her; a golden-brown wool jersey sweater
suit, with a little brown cap to match.

"Oh, how lovely! I can wear them all day, and the gray things all
night--all evening, I mean," Joy exulted. "And maybe I'll never have
to put on the picture dresses at all!"