"Oh, dear!" sighed Faith, in the tone of one who felt herself checkmated. "I wish I knew what we really _could_ afford! It always seems to be these little things that don't cost much, and that other girls, whose fathers are not nearly so well off, always, have, without thinking anything about it." And she glanced over the table, whereon shone a silver coffee service, and up at the mantel where stood a French clock that had been placed there a month before. "Pull at the bobbin and the latch will fly up." An unspoken suggestion, of drift akin to this, flitted through the mind of Faith. She wondered if her father knew that this was a Signal Street invitation. Mr. Gartney was ambitious for his children, and solicitous for their place in society. But Faith had a touch of high-mindedness about her that made it impossible for her to pull bobbins. So, when her father presently, with hat and coat on, came into the room again for a moment, before going out for the day, she sat quite silent, with her foot upon the fender, looking into the fire. Something in her face however, quite unconsciously, bespoke that the world did not lie entirely straight before her, and this catching her father's eye, brought up to him, by an untraceable association, the half-proffered request of his wife. "So you haven't any shoes, Faithie. Is that it?" "None nice enough for a party, father." "And the party is a vital necessity, I suppose. Where is it to be?" The latch string was put forth, and while Faith still stayed her hand, her mother, absolved from selfish end, was fain to catch it up. "At the Rushleighs'. The Old Year out and the New Year in." "Oh, well, we mustn't 'let the colt go bare,'" answered Mr. Gartney, pleasantly, portemonnaie in hand. "But you must make that do." He handed her five dollars. "And take good care of your things when you have got them, for I don't pick up many five dollars nowadays." And the old look of care crept up, replacing the kindly smile, as he turned and left the room. "I feel very much as if I had picked my father's pocket," said Faith, holding the bank note, half ashamedly, in her hand. Henderson Gartney, Esq., was a man of no method in his expenditure. When money chanced to be plenty with him it was very apt to go as might happen--for French clocks, or whatsoever; and then, suddenly, the silver paper fell short elsewhere, and lo! a corner was left uncovered. The horse and the mare were shod. Great expenses were incurred; money was found, somehow, for grand outlays; but the comfort of buying, with a readiness, the little needed matters of every day--this was foregone. "Not let the colt go bare!" It was precisely the thing he was continually doing.