“Going shopping? If you want that skirt pattern I’ll get it for you.” “Thank you, I would like it,” said Mrs. Townsend, “though I’m not going shopping exactly; I have to take Pinky to the dentist’s—it’s so long since she’s been—but I may get some material for myself on the way home.” Her husband had been for several months with Mr. Effingham, and they were just about beginning to get their feet on the first rungs of the ladder which leads to the plateau of Living Like Other People. “Why on earth did you cut up those trousers to make knickerbockers for Frankie?” said the other, taking up the end of Mrs. Townsend’s work. “They look just like new, and the cloth doesn’t seem worn at all.” “It isn’t,” said Mrs. Townsend briefly; “Mr. Townsend only had them on a few times. They are the best material, they were bought at Brooker’s, and I thought he’d get such good wear out of them, but he says there’s something wrong with the cut.” “Well, it’s no use to try and make a man wear anything he doesn’t want to,” said Mrs. Whymer. She yawned as she rose. “You don’t say I’ve been here over an hour! I do get so lonesome at home all day, and Mr. Whymer is working until eleven o’clock every night. I’m thinking of going to that new sanitarium at Westly for a while. I really haven’t been able to do a thing for the last six weeks. I get so tired out ordering the meals, and the doctor thinks I had better try a rest cure. Your husband likes it with Mr. Effingham, I hear. He was very fortunate in getting the position. Mr. Butts tried for it, but he always looked so—well, not up-to-date, you know. Clothes do make such a difference.” “That’s what I always say,” returned Mrs. Townsend demurely, with a queer little hazy, retrospective smile, that was somehow wistful, too. Her wisdom had certainly been vindicated, yet there were results that, as usual, eluded theory. She was never quite sure whether her rebellion had been a success or not. The time might come when she and her Francis would laugh over it together in company—but it hadn’t come yet. The Mother of Emily The Mother of Emily “If I had only the foundation, but I haven’t that, or the trimming, either; nothing but this old, tumbled _chiffon_ and these faded flowers.” Mrs. Briarley looked dejectedly at the mass of frippery in her lap. Five dollars for a new hat such as she wanted would leave only one dollar from her own private purse for the Easter collection, and the sermon last Sunday had been a plea for religious enthusiasm in giving at this season. Mrs. Briarley was a fair, pretty little thing, although slight almost to meagreness in her immaturity of outline. She was foolishly young to be the wife of a man of thirty and the mother of a two-year-old child.