Wanting to get rid of Ginny Ann, she put down her head again, pretending to snore audibly, and the woman retired, muttering to herself: “Dat’s de strangest young gal I eber did see! Doane wanter git married, she say! Well, Lordy! she sartinly is diff’runt from any oder young gal in de worl’!” CHAPTER VII. Molly did not have any “larks” the next day, for she was so stiff and sore she had to remain in bed all day, and submit to the fussy attendance of Ginny Ann, and the kindness of her remorseful aunt who, blaming herself for the girl’s accident, did all in her power to atone for it, even to promising her a month at the White Sulphur Springs, and freely pardoning her for sending her money to Molly Trueheart, the actress’ daughter. “And I sent Agnes Walker back to town yesterday and bought two new dresses for you,” she said. “And I’ve trunks full of things as good as new that she’s going to make over for you to wear.” “Oh, Aunt Thalia, I don’t deserve ’em, I can’t take ’em,” Molly said, conscience-stricken at all this kindness. She said to herself reproachfully, “And I wrote to Lou that she was an old dragoness! What a shame! She has turned real good, and it makes me feel meaner than ever. Oh, I can’t take her presents and go to the Springs with her, and I mustn’t say a word, I must wait for Lou’s letter. She will certainly let me come home at once!” But several days passed and no reply came from the absent step-sister. Meanwhile the work of dress-making went briskly on, to the secret distress of the little fraud, as she called herself when alone. “Oh, it’s too bad, ruining all these fine things cutting them up for me! I shall never wear them, and they will not do for Louise, she is so much bigger than I am! Oh, why don’t she write and put a stop to it all?” she thought impatiently, and in her trouble she wrote another letter, telling Louise of the sacrifice of the finery, and begging her incoherently to “do something.” By the time that she could reasonably expect a reply to this second appeal several very pretty dresses were completed, and one evening soon after tea when she had hurried upstairs to have a real good cry over Louise’s unaccountable silence, she was startled by the abrupt entrance of Mrs. Barry’s maid with the muslin dress thrown over her arm. “Mrs. Barry wants you to dress and come down to the parlor,” she said. Molly stared. “What for?” she inquired ungrammatically. Agnes Walker shook her head laconically and answered: “I can’t tell. She wants to see how your new dresses fit, perhaps, or to give you some lessons in managing your train. Anyway, she told me to dress you and send you down.” “Here’s a lark,” said the merry girl to herself, forgetting all about her tears of a minute before. She submitted coolly to Agnes Walker’s help, exclaiming gayly: “I should like to see how I look in a fine dress. I never had one in my life.” “Fy, Miss Barry,” cried the maid; but Molly persisted in her assertion.