“Oh, no, Aunt Rebecca,” said Beth eagerly. She took the worn footstool and sat down upon it, folding her hands to discuss the matter thoroughly. “That isn’t a contradicting contradiction; I just mean--well, I mean _no_; all good little girls do not wear aprons, truly. I have seen pictures and read stories of little girls that were as good as they were lovely--you could see it in the pictures, and the stories always told you so--who never wore aprons at all. In the stories you often read exactly what the girls wear, and they are perfectly be-au-ti-ful dresses, but not a single apron. If they wore aprons the story would sometimes say: ‘Reaching her arm up ’most out of joint she buttoned her apron as she went down-stairs.’ Or, maybe: ‘Her mother called her down to see the minister, and she pulled off her apron to be fit to be seen.’ But they never say anything except something about her throwing her hat off, or pulling off her coat, or putting on her gloves, or something nice--never a single apron in a story. And it’s the same in pictures. I don’t know a picture of a girl in an apron. And in the fashion books you never see a girl in an apron. They are always all fluffy and sweet, but they don’t cover it up. And these books say they are ‘Styles for Girls of Eight to Twelve.’ That means they show what girls wear, doesn’t it? And not an apron!” Beth’s voice rose triumphant. “If you could wait, Aunt Rebecca, I’d get some of the books Miss Tappan left when she sewed here last week, and show you.” “Never mind,” said Aunt Rebecca. “Those are stories and fashions for children who don’t live as you do. Their lot is not your lot.” “Oh,” sighed Beth. It was a saddening sort of an explanation, but it seemed to cover the ground. She had received this answer, or something like it, a great many times when she showed signs of discontent. This did not happen often, for Beth was a contented little soul, naturally good and docile. Sometimes, but not often, she wistfully wondered what it would be to have life more flowery, so to speak; she wondered if mothers made things brighter. Aunt Rebecca--her great-aunt--had brought her up kindly; Beth was grateful, but Aunt Rebecca had not a mind that considered the merely ornamental, the merely pleasant things, worth cultivating. And Beth loved pretty things, and joyous things like a sweet-loving humming-bird; she was like a little humming-bird, flying about in a stony place. “Some people’s lot is to be like the lilies of the field, or the butterflies,” said Aunt Rebecca severely. “They live careless, gay lives, spending a great deal, and never considering. You should be glad, Elizabeth, that your lot is different.”