She went down to see Mrs. Bolton. "Isn't there some place in the village
where they have children's ready-made clothes for sale?" she asked.
"Mr. Gerrish's," said Mrs. Bolton briefly.
Annie shook her head, drawing in her breath. "I shouldn't want to go there.
Is there nowhere else?"
"There's a Jew place. They say he cheats."
"I dare say he doesn't cheat more than most Christians," said Annie,
jumping from her chair. "I'll try the Jew place. I want you to come with
me, Mrs. Bolton."
They went together, and found a dress that they both decided would fit
Idella, and a hat that matched it.
"I don't know as he'd like to have anything quite so nice," said Mrs.
Bolton coldly.
"I don't know as he has anything to say about it," said Annie, mimicking
Mrs. Bolton's accent and syntax.
They both meant Mr. Peck. Mrs. Bolton turned away to hide her pleasure in
Annie's audacity and extravagance.
"Want I should carry 'em?" she asked, when they were out of the store.
"No, I can carry them," said Annie.
She put them where Idella must see them as soon as she woke.
It was late before she slept, and Idella's voice broke upon her dreams. The
child was sitting up in her bed, gloating upon the dress and hat hung and
perched upon the chair-back in the middle of the room. "Oh, whose is it?
Whose is it? Whose is it?" she screamed; and as Annie lifted herself on her
elbow, and looked over at her: "Is it mine? Is it mine?"
Annie had thought of playing some joke; of pretending not to understand; of
delaying the child's pleasure; playing with it; teasing. But in the face of
this rapturous longing, she could only answer, "Yes."
"Mine? My very own? To have? To keep always?"
"Yes."
Idella sprang from her bed, and flew upon the things with a primitive,
greedy transport in their possession. She could scarcely be held long
enough to be washed before the dress could be put on.
"Be careful--be careful not to get it soiled now," said Annie.
"No; I won't spoil it." She went quietly downstairs, and when Annie
followed, she found her posing before the long pier-glass in the parlour,
and twisting and turning for this effect and that. All the morning she
moved about prim and anxious; the wild-wood flower was like a hot-house
blossom wired for a bouquet. At the church door she asked Idella, "Would
you rather sit with Mrs. Bolton?"