Cornelia Jackson is the rector’s daughter, and hasn’t above $200 a year to spend on her clothes and to buy Christmas presents. She is a little too plump, is brown, with some warm color in her cheeks in summer, and has dark hair. Her face never would be noticed except for the jollity lurking in it, which she inherits from her father. In winter and fall, when she looks pale, she “tones up” with a morning dress of all-wool stuff, one of those brown grounds with small bunches of brilliant crimson or purple flowers--a cheery pattern that the rector likes behind the coffee urn of a cold morning--with crisp white ruffles, set off by the brown dress. Crimson or purple, in soft brilliant shades, are her colors for neck-ties. Her street dress is a dark walnut-brown cloth, trimmed with cross-cut velvet the same shade. The over-skirts of Cornelia’s dresses are always long, so that she will not look like a fishing-bob or a doll pin-cushion; and there is deep rose-color about her bonnet. Not roses, by the way--she has an unspoken feeling that it is not for every body to wear roses--but velvety mallows and double stocks, imitations of fragrant common garden flowers that are very like herself. The brown and crimson maiden is a pleasant sight of a winter’s day, when the gray of the church and white of the snow need something warm to come between them. In summer she chooses, or her cousin in New York chooses for her, not the light percales that every one else is wearing, nor the grays and stone-colors that walk to church every Sunday, but écru linens, with relief of black or brown for morning, when she goes from pantry to garden, and from sewing-machine to nursery. Afternoons she doesn’t divide herself by putting on a white blouse and colored skirt, or a buff redingote over a black train, but wears a dress of one color, that looks as if it were meant to stay at home. White nansook is her delight, its semi-transparency wonderfully suiting her clear brownness, but solid white linen or cambric she eschews. Soft violet jaconet, and the whole family of lilacs, are made for her; and she is luxurious in ruffles and flounces on her demi-trained skirts, since she makes and often irons them herself. Black grenadine, of course, she wears, with high lining to give her waist its full length, every bit of which it needs; and she is not too utilitarian to neglect the aid which a modest demi-train on a house dress gives to her height. All the other girls may wear puffed waists and pleated waists. She knows they are not for her plump shoulders, though clusters of fine tucks on a blouse give length to the waist, and lessen the width of the back. Shawls she never wears, nor short perky basques, that are considered--I don’t know why--the proper thing for stout figures. Her choice is the long polonaise, and the French jacket, which by its short shoulders and simple lines conveys a decent comeliness of figure to any one who wears it. If she had a party dress,