Page:Female Prose Writers of America.djvu/434

 a pink one,&mdash;and there’s a blue one,&mdash;and there’s a green one. Is that the kind?”

“This is the kind,” said Ellen; “but this isn’t the colour I want.”

“What colour do you want?”

“Something dark, if you please.”

“Well, there, that green’s dark; won’t that do? See, that would make up very pretty for you.”

“No,” said Ellen, “mamma don’t like green.”

“Why don’t she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? What colour does she like?”

“Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice gray, would do,” said Ellen, “if it’s fine enough.”

“‘Dark blue,’ or ‘dark brown,’ or ‘a nice gray,’ eh! Well, she’s pretty easy to suit. A dark blue I’ve showed you already,&mdash;what’s the matter with that?”

“It isn’t dark enough,” said Ellen.

“Well,” said he, discontentedly, pulling down another piece, “how’ll that do? That’s dark enough.”

It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he had showed her at first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling for her little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. They agreed perfectly as to fineness.

“What is the price of this?” she asked, with trembling hope that she was going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her enterprise.

“Two dollars a yard.”

Her hopes and her countenance fell together. “That’s too high,” she said with a sigh.

“Then take this other blue; come,&mdash;it’s a great deal prettier than that dark one, and not so dear; and I know your mother will like it better.”

Ellen’s cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she couldn’t bear to give up.

“Would you be so good as to show me some gray?”

He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an