By the Light of the Soul | Page 2

a dress-maker, and had paid three
dollars for that, beside the trimmings, which were lace and ribbon.
Maria wore the gown without her mother's knowledge. She had in fact
stolen down the backstairs on that account, and gone out the south door
in order that her mother should not see her. Maria's mother was ill
lately, and had not been able to go to church, nor even to perform her
usual tasks. She had always made Maria's gowns herself until this pink

gingham.
Maria's mother was originally from New England, and her conscience
was abnormally active. Her father was of New Jersey, and his
conscience, while no one would venture to say that it was defective, did
not in the least interfere with his enjoyment of life.
"Oh, well, Abby," her father would reply, easily, when her mother
expressed her distress that she was unable to work as she had done, "we
shall manage somehow. Don't worry, Abby." Worry in another irritated
him even more than in himself.
"Well, Maria can't help much while she is in school. She is a delicate
little thing, and sometimes I am worried about her."
"Oh, Maria can't be expected to do much while she is in school," her
father said, easily. "We'll manage somehow, only for Heaven's sake
don't worry."
Then Maria's father had taken his hat and gone down street. He always
went down street of an evening. Maria, who had been sitting on the
porch, had heard every word of the conversation which had been
carried on in the sitting-room that very evening. It did not alarm her at
all because her mother considered her delicate. Instead, she had a vague
sense of distinction on account of it. It was as if she realized being a
flower rather than a vegetable. She thought of it that night as she sat in
meeting. She glanced across at a girl who went to the same school--a
large, heavily built child with a coarseness of grain showing in every
feature--and a sense of superiority at once exalted and humiliated her.
She said to herself that she was much finer and prettier than Lottie
Sears, but that she ought to be thankful and not proud because she was.
She felt vain, but she was sorry because of her vanity. She knew how
charming her pink gingham gown was, but she knew that she ought to
have asked her mother if she might wear it. She knew that her mother
would scold her--she had a ready tongue--and she realized that she
would deserve it. She had put on the pink gingham on account of
Wollaston Lee, who was usually at prayer-meeting. That, of course, she
could not tell her mother. There are some things too sacred for little

girls to tell their mothers. She wondered if Wollaston would ask leave
to walk home with her. She had seen a boy step out of a waiting file at
the vestry door to a blushing girl, and had seen the girl, with a coy
readiness, slip her hand into the waiting crook of his arm, and walk off,
and she had wondered when such bliss would come to her. It never had.
She wondered if the pink gingham might bring it to pass to-night. The
pink gingham was as the mating plumage of a bird. All unconsciously
she glanced sideways over the fall of lace-trimmed pink ruffles at her
slender shoulders at Wollaston Lee. He was gazing straight at Miss
Slome, Miss Ida Slome, who was the school-teacher, and his young
face wore an expression of devotion. Maria's eyes followed his; she did
not dream of being jealous; Miss Slome seemed too incalculably old to
her for that. She was not so very old, in her early thirties, but the early
thirties to a young girl are venerable. Miss Ida Slome was called a
beauty. She, as well as Maria, wore a pink dress, at which Maria
privately wondered. The teacher seemed to her too old to wear pink.
She thought she ought wear black like her mother. Miss Slome's pink
dress had knots of black velvet about it which accentuated it, even as
Miss Slome's face was accentuated by the clear darkness of her eyes
and the black puff of her hair above her finely arched brows. Her
cheeks were of the sweetest red--not pink but red--which seemed a
further tone of the pink of her attire, and she wore a hat encircled with a
wreath of red roses. Maria thought that she should have worn a bonnet.
Maria felt an odd sort of instinctive antagonism for her. She wondered
why Wollaston looked at the teacher so instead of at herself. She gave
her head a charming cant, and glanced again, but the boy still had his
eyes fixed