Alma's lips were close shut. Alma was not quite sure, if she opened
them, whether there would come a laugh or a sob. The laugh was uppermost
and almost parted the firm-set lips, when a side glance at the quivering
face of the little woman in the big chair turned the laugh into a half-
stifled sob. Then Alma spoke.
"Mother, dear, listen. Do you think a silk dress and a stiff collar can
make you and father any dearer to me? Do you think an 'ain't' or a
'hain't' can make me love either of you any less? Do you suppose I
expect you, after fifty years' service for others, to be as careful in
your ways and words as if you'd spent those fifty years in training
yourself instead of in training six children? Why, mother, dear, do you
suppose that I don't know that for twenty of those years you have had no
thoughts, no prayers, save for me?--that I have been the very apple of
your eye? Well, it's my turn, now, and you are the apple of my eye--you
and father. Why, dearie, you have no idea of the plans I have for you.
There's a good strong woman coming next week for the kitchen work. Oh,
it's all right," assured Alma, quickly, in response to the look on her
mother's face. "Why, I'm rich! Only think of those orders! And then you
shall dress in silk or velvet, or calico--anything you like, so long as
it doesn't scratch nor prick," she added merrily, bending forward and
fastening the lace collar.
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