Faith Gartneys Girlhood | Page 2

last time, they would hardly do to wear
again. If it were any use, I should say I must have a new dress; but I
thought at least I should freshen up with the 'little fixings,' and perhaps
have something left for a few natural flowers for my hair."
"I know. But your father looked annoyed when I told him we should
want fresh marketing to-day. He is really pinched, just now, for ready
money--and he is so discouraged about the times. He told me only last
night of a man who owed him five hundred dollars, and came to say he
didn't know as he could pay a cent. It doesn't seem to be a time to
afford gloves and shoes and flowers. And then there'll be the carriage,
too."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Faith, in the tone of one who felt herself
checkmated. "I wish I knew what we really could afford! It always
seems to be these little things that don't cost much, and that other girls,
whose fathers are not nearly so well off, always, have, without thinking
anything about it." And she glanced over the table, whereon shone a
silver coffee service, and up at the mantel where stood a French clock
that had been placed there a month before.
"Pull at the bobbin and the latch will fly up." An unspoken suggestion,
of drift akin to this, flitted through the mind of Faith. She wondered if
her father knew that this was a Signal Street invitation.
Mr. Gartney was ambitious for his children, and solicitous for their
place in society.
But Faith had a touch of high-mindedness about her that made it
impossible for her to pull bobbins.

So, when her father presently, with hat and coat on, came into the room
again for a moment, before going out for the day, she sat quite silent,
with her foot upon the fender, looking into the fire.
Something in her face however, quite unconsciously, bespoke that the
world did not lie entirely straight before her, and this catching her
father's eye, brought up to him, by an untraceable association, the
half-proffered request of his wife.
"So you haven't any shoes, Faithie. Is that it?"
"None nice enough for a party, father."
"And the party is a vital necessity, I suppose. Where is it to be?"
The latch string was put forth, and while Faith still stayed her hand, her
mother, absolved from selfish end, was fain to catch it up.
"At the Rushleighs'. The Old Year out and the New Year in."
"Oh, well, we mustn't 'let the colt go bare,'" answered Mr. Gartney,
pleasantly, portemonnaie in hand. "But you must make that do." He
handed her five dollars. "And take good care of your things when you
have got them, for I don't pick up many five dollars nowadays."
And the old look of care crept up, replacing the kindly smile, as he
turned and left the room.
"I feel very much as if I had picked my father's pocket," said Faith,
holding the bank note, half ashamedly, in her hand.
Henderson Gartney, Esq., was a man of no method in his expenditure.
When money chanced to be plenty with him it was very apt to go as
might happen--for French clocks, or whatsoever; and then, suddenly,
the silver paper fell short elsewhere, and lo! a corner was left
uncovered.
The horse and the mare were shod. Great expenses were incurred;
money was found, somehow, for grand outlays; but the comfort of

buying, with a readiness, the little needed matters of every day--this
was foregone. "Not let the colt go bare!" It was precisely the thing he
was continually doing.
Mrs. Gartney had long found it to be her only wise way to make her
hay while the sun was shining--to buy, when she could buy, what she
was sure would be most wanted--and to look forward as far as possible,
in her provisions, since her husband scarcely seemed to look forward at
all.
So she exemplified, over and over again in her life, the story of Pharaoh
and his fat and lean kine.
That night, Faith, her little purchases and arrangements all complete,
and flowers and carriage bespoken for the next evening, went to bed to
dream such dreams as only come to the sleep of early years.
At the same time, lingering by the fireside below for a half hour's
unreserved conversation, Mr. Gartney was telling his wife of another
money disappointment.
"Blacklow, at Cross Corners, gives up the lease of the house in the
spring. He writes me he is going out to Indiana with his son-in-law. I
don't know where I shall find another such tenant--or any at all, for that
matter."
CHAPTER II.
SORTES.
"How shall I know if I do choose