"The girls call me vain--and say I am like a peacock, and Miss Winthrop is sad over me, and all for the same reason. I don't like to have the girls talk about me, and I don't like to have Miss Winthrop sad; I wonder if I am such a giddy girl! I suppose it is true; I do think too much of dress. I suppose I might look nice without thinking so much about it and without showing that I do. Miss Winthrop talked about newness of life--I wish I could be made over all new. Then I wouldn't be Mary Brown. Yes, I might; I am _Prinkie_ Brown now. I won't be called Prinkie any more. I'll be Mary, and I will live for something better than dress." "Prinkie," called Mrs. Brown as the young girl came down stairs after putting away the new hat which had become less precious. "Mamma, please do not call me that any more. And will you please not let any one else call me so? I hate the name and I am going to be Mary Brown after this." Mary could not tell her mother that she had resolved to "walk in newness of life," for Mrs. Brown was not a religious woman, and the child felt that she would not understand her. But to her grandmother she said as she lingered in her room at evening: "Grandmamma, this has been a true Easter to me!" This was a year ago, and Mary Brown still wears new hats, from time to time, and still dresses as seems to befit the daughter of a man of wealth, but no one calls her "Prinkie." No one would think of comparing her to a peacock; for she walks in newness of life; every Sabbath is to her a glad Easter. FAYE HUNTINGTON. [Illustration: PRINKIE BROWN.] _Volume 13, Number 23._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & Co. _April 10, 1886._ THE PANSY. [Illustration: THEY GATHERED ABOUT THE PLATFORM TO LISTEN.] REACHING OUT. (_A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends._) BY PANSY. CHAPTER VI. THE little old grandmothers with their queer caps were perhaps the feature of the evening. Everybody wanted a bouquet of them. In fact, long before eight o'clock, Jerry had been hurried away for a fresh supply, and Nettie had been established behind a curtain, in haste, to "make more grandmothers." In her excitement she made them even prettier than before; and sweet, grave little Sate had no trouble in selling every one. The pretty Roman flower girl was so much admired, that her father, a fine-looking young mechanic who came after her bringing red stockings and neat shoes, carried her off at last in triumph on his shoulder, saying he was afraid her head would be turned with so much praise, but thanking everybody with bright smiling eyes for giving his little girl such a pleasant afternoon. "She isn't Irish, after all," said Irene Lewis, watching them. "And Mr. Sherrill shook hands with him as familiarly as though he was an old friend; I wish we hadn't made such simpletons of ourselves. Lorena Barstow, what did you want to go and say she was an Irish girl for?"