"I wish I could go to trim this evening," she said to Alma, as they were
going home after school.
"Don't you believe they'll let you?"
"I don't believe they'll 'prove of it," Lucretia answered, with dignity.
"Say, Lucretia, do you s'pose it would make any difference if my mother
should go up to your house an' ask your aunts?"
Lucretia gave her a startled look: a vision of her aunt's indignation at
such interference shot before her eyes. "Oh, I don't believe it would do
a mite of good," said she, fervently. "But I tell you what 'tis, Alma,
you might come home with me while I ask."
"I will," said Alma, eagerly. "Just wait a minute till I ask mother if I
can."
But it was all useless. Alma's pretty, pleading little face as a
supplement to Lucretia's, and her timorous, "Please let Lucretia go,"
had no effect whatever.
"I don't approve of children being out nights," said Aunt Lucretia, and
Aunt Maria supported her. "There's no use talking," said she; "you can't
go, Lucretia. Not another word. Take your things off, and sit down and
sew your square of patchwork before supper. Almy, you'd better run
right home; I guess your mother'll be wanting you to help her." And Alma
went.
"What made you bring that Ford girl in here to ask me?" Aunt Lucretia,
who had seen straight through her namesake's artifice, asked of young
Lucretia.
"I don't know," stammered Lucretia, over her patchwork.
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