THE BLUE SILK DRESS

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Aug 26, 1880

THE BLUE SILK DRESS.

"I don't see what I'm to do for a dress to wear at Aunt Ruth's party," said Laura Corwin fretfully.

"I do wish I could have things like other folks for once—just to see how it would seem."

"Why can't you wear your white muslin, with new ribbons or flowers?" asked Mrs. Corwin quietly.

"And set up for 'sweet simplicity,'" said Laura scornfully, "not if I never go anywhere! I must have something else, or I shall not be decent."

Mrs. Corwin leaned back in her chair, one hand enveloped in a stocking she was darning, and pondered the old—yet ever new—problem: How to make a new thing out of old ones.

"How would it do to get a little of something new, and make up with your old pink silk?"

"It would be simply horrid! Decided colors are old-fashioned, and I should look as though I came out of the ark. Besides, I shan't have enough left of my hundred dollars to buy a yard of cotton cloth, after I have paid for my ticket to New York."

"Well, I'm sorry, dear, but I don't see what we can do," said Mrs. Corwin, sighing, "I'm sure you've made Aunt Ruth's money go as far as money could."

"I'd rather not go at all—for my part—than to go shabby," went on Laura.

"Perhaps you had better not try to make the visit then," said Mrs. Corwin. "She did not make it a point, you know."

"I suppose I could give it up—of course," said Laura crossly. "I generally do have to give up everything I want; I never have anything as I like it; I never go anywhere as other girls do"—and with this speech she threw down her sewing, and flounced out of the room.

Mrs. Corwin resumed her darning without a word, but a deep sigh fell on the ear of her other daughter, Katie, who sat reading by the window, and had taken no part in the conversation.

"What is it, mother?" she asked.

"Nothing, dear, except that Laura is so unhappy about her dress. I should like to have her able to get all that she wants for once, just to show her that happiness does not really depend on it, even for her."

"I suppose it is hard," said Katie thoughtfully, "she's so fond of dressing, and she wants to have a pleasant visit. It's different with me," she went on, "it doesn't make any difference what I wear; but Laura is really pretty when she is dressed, and she doesn't care for books or pictures as I do."

"You'll have a nice time in New York," said her mother, smiling. "Your aunt is as fond of pictures as you are. She has some beautiful ones herself, besides a splendid library."

"Oh!" said Katie eagerly, "how I shall enjoy them, and the Exhibition, and—everything. I wish Laura was ready to go to-morrow."

"Have you spent all your money?" asked Mrs. Corwin.

"No; I want to get some books when I go there, a few—for my own."

Aunt Ruth lived in New York City, and had not seen her two nieces since they were little children. She was a queer personage, and always doing something unexpected. Having allowed Laura and Katie to grow up without seeing her, she had suddenly waked up to remember them, and had sent each one a hundred dollars to use exactly as she liked, but accompanied by an invitation to spend a few weeks at her house.

The invitation was as unusual as the gift, and trips to New York were very unusual indeed in the lives of these girls; in fact, neither of them had ever seen that city, and each in her own way was full of anticipations and dreams of the visit.

At the tea-table that evening, Laura astonished the family by announcing that she should not go to New York. There was a general exclamation of surprise.

"Well," she said in explanation, "I haven't money enough to dress decently while I'm there, I know very well how countrified I shall look and feel, and I would rather stay at home till the end of time, than be mortified to death about my looks."

"But my dear," remonstrated papa, "you have accepted, and Aunt Ruth will think very strange of it."

"I don't care if she does," said Laura snap-pishly.

"But I'm sure you will look well enough," said mamma, "you have two new dresses, and one or two old ones that look nicely."

"But I haven't a single thing to wear to the party," said Laura. "I won't wear an old summer dress, as Katie will. If I can't be like other folks I'll stay at home—there!"

Mamma sighed, and papa looked grieved.

Katie said nothing, but she noticed Laura's red eyes, and she knew that this visit had been her hope and dream for years. She was a generous soul, and never could bear to see anyone unhappy, and a thought flashed into her mind.

"What if I stay at home and let her go!" It brought a pang, for she thought of the books, the pictures, the thousand wonders the city holds for the little country girl. She too had longed to go, all her life.

"But Laura doesn't care for books as I do," urged her generous impulse, "she has no pleasures except in society and going about, while I can forget my disappointment in a book. It is hard, too," went on the invisible monitor, "she is pretty, fond of dress and society, and she has never been out into the world at all."

All the evening the contest went on in her heart, while her eyes were bent on her book. All night she tossed and tumbled, and in the morning announced her decision, while they were dressing.

"Laura, I'm decided not to go to New York, and I'll give you the money for a party dress."

Laura turned quickly from the glass where she stood arranging her hair.

"What's that for?" she said sharply.

"Well," said Katie, "I think perhaps you care more for it than I do. I don't care for society any way, you know, and the pictures, and books and authors I want to see, will wait. My turn may come some day."

"O well; if you don't care to go," Laura said eagerly, "I shall be very glad to have it, for I do want to go awfully. I'll get a blue silk I saw yesterday at Mason's, a lovely shade, and I won't have Miss Steel make it; I'll take it to New York, and have it made stylish"—and so, selfishly full of her own pleasure, she accepted, without even a thank-you, Katy's hard self-denial.

Katie felt a sharp pang, but she had not expected gratitude in Laura. The worst was to tell mamma, and get her consent, for she did not wish Laura's selfishness to be humored. Papa positively objected, but Katie pleaded so earnestly, that finding she really set upon it, he gave unwilling consent.

The dress was bought. Laura's trunk was packed, and in high spirits, with all the remainder of Katie's hundred dollars in her purse, she started for New York, while Katie buried her self deeper than ever in the books that were to be consolation as well as society to her.

"Where's Katie?" was Aunt Ruth's first question, when Laura entered her door.

"She preferred to stay at home. She dosen't care for much but books, you know," said Laura hastily.

"But when I sent the money I think she might have humored an old auntie enough to make her a visit," said queer Aunt Ruth, who persisted in knowing a reason.

"Well, she bought some books, I believe, and some clothes," said Laura, carelessly, looking with eager delight on the elegant furnishings of her aunt's house, thinking how happy she should be always to live in such a beautiful place, and rejoicing in the fancy of how well her blue silk would look here. To Katy's self-denial, and her aunt's misunderstanding of it, she gave not thought.

No more was said about Katie. Aunt Ruth made up her mind that she had deliberately preferred to spend her money for books and clothes, and not to come and see her, and a hard feeling against her was planted in her heart from that hour.

With Laura she was delighted, for that young lady, dressed to suit herself, and being besides loaded with presents by her aunt, and treated to society and rare gayeties, had not a wish ungratified, and consequently was amiable and apparently as lovely as one could wish. .

Much as she enjoyed her aunt's house there was one place she did not like to visit, and that was the library. It was a large room, sombre with dark woods and rich bindings, with a cheerful open fire, plenty of comfortable reading chairs, and shelves upon shelves of choice and valuable books.

Somehow she could never come into this room without a vision of Katie revelling in its delights, and in spite of the crust of selfishness over her heart, it proved a most uncomfortable visitor there. Thoughts of her unselfish sister would rise before her, and for hours she could not forget them. Katie sitting alone in their dingy room longing for pictures and choice books, and all beautiful things, as she well knew she did; Katie cheerfully giving up all the anticipated delights of her visit that she might make a display on one evening; Katie losing the affection of her aunt on her account; herself loaded with presents, and Katie's poor little money in her purse.

Do what she would she could not drive these thoughts away. She got a better view of the real Laura than she ever had before, and the picture did not please her.

When the long-expected evening arrived, and Laura put on the coveted silk dress, made in style and enriched by some old lace of her aunt's; and when at last that doting lady clasped on her neck and wrists a lovely set of pearls to complete the costume; the thought of Katie and her sacrifice, and her own selfishness, spoiled all the pleasure which had cost so much.

This was made worse during the evening by her introduction to people whose names stood high in the literary world, and to see whom, would be to Katie the greatest happiness she could conceive. Laura's cup turned to bitter waters in her hand.

The next day she astonished her aunt by bursting into tears of shame and repentance, and telling the whole story of her complainings, Katie's generosity, and begging her to let her go home and ask Katie to forgive her.

But Aunt Ruth was one of those persons—not few, alas!—who never change their mind. She was pleased with Laura, and she would not believe her account of herself.

"Say what you will, Laura," she said firmly, "I shall never believe that Katie really wanted to see me—never."

Now Laura began to see that the evil she had done was even greater than she had feared. She begged harder to go home, and at last Aunt Ruth gave consent, though she declared it was only to please her, and not on Katie's account.

Now, reader, of course you expect nothing less than that the odd old aunt should seek out Katie, and overwhelm her with kindness, and she would be paid a thousand times over for her self-denial.

But in real life things don't always turn out so nicely; errors and mistakes don't always correct themselves. Aunt Ruth never forgave Katie, never again invited her to her house.

Every year she invited Laura alone. It was hard for Katie, but after all she had her reward.

Laura fought her selfishness constantly and became a loving, thoughtful sister.

And when Aunt Ruth died, she divided her property among all her many nieces—excepting Katie. This made opportunity for Laura's last crowning act of penitence, for though the whole sum would have enabled her to go abroad and travel with a party of her friends—which was the desire of her heart—half of it would not furnish sufficient income to do this. Yet she instantly divided her legacy into halves, and insisted on Katie's accepting one.

Laura's fight was a long one, and as long as she lived she kept the blue silk dress hanging among her other dresses, as she said, that every time she saw it she might remember the dragon of selfishness she had to fight.—Examiner and Chronicle.