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The older girl, with a sleepy but sympathetic smile, slipped out of bed and commenced dressing. The child sprang after her. “Sister,” she cried, running to the splint-bottomed chair on which lay the cheap but exquisitely white undergarments. “I can’t hardly wait. Ain’t it good of Mr. Hoover to take me to town? Oh, I feel as if I had hearts all over me, an’ every one of ’em beating so!”

“Don’t be so excited, Pet.” The older sister smiled gently at the child. “Things never are quite as nice as you expect them to be,” she added, with that wisdom that comes so soon to starved country hearts.

“Well, this can’t help bein’ nice,” said the child, with a beautiful faith. She sat on the strip of rag carpeting that partially covered the rough floor, and drew on her stockings and her copper-toed shoes. “Oh, sister, my fingers shake so I can’t get the strings through the eyelets! Do you think Mr. Hoover might oversleep hisself? It can’t help bein’ nice—nicer’n I expect. Of course,” she added, with a momentary regret, “I wish I had some other dress besides that buff calico, but I ain’t, an’ so—it’s reel pretty, anyways, sister, ain’t it?”