Jesus loves us better than they do, and I guess He cares more than they do."
Christina was silenced now, as her mother had been, and followed Dolly thinking there were a _pair_ of uncomfortably strange people in the house. The next minute Dolly was not strange at all, but as much a child as any of her fellows. She had unlocked the precious bookcase, and with the zeal of a connoisseur and the glee of a discoverer she was enlarging upon the treasures therein stowed away.
"Here is 'Henry Milner,'" she said, taking down three little red volumes. "Have you read that? Oh, it is delightful! I like it almost best of all. But I have not had time to read much yet. Here is 'Harry and Lucy,' and 'Rosamond,' and 'Frank.' I have just looked at them. And 'Sandford and Merton.' do you know 'Sandford and Merton'? I have just read that."
"There are the 'Arabian Nights,'" said Christina.
"Is that good? I haven't read much yet. I don't know almost any of them."
"'The Looking-Glass'"--Christina went on--"'Pity's Gift'--'Father's Tales.'"
"Those are beautiful," Dolly put in. "I read one, about 'Grandfather's old arm-chair.' Oh, it's _very_ interesting."
"'Elements of Morality'"--Christina read further on the back of a brown book.
"That don't sound good, but I guess it _is_ good," said Dolly. "I just peeped in, and 'Evenings at Home' looks pretty. Here is 'Robinson Crusoe,' and 'Northern Regions;' I want to read that very much. I guess it's delightful."
"Have you ever been to school before?" said Christina. The books had a faint interest for her.
"No," said Dolly.
"Nor have I; but I know somebody who has been at Mrs. Delancy's, and she says there is one lovely thing at that school. Every month they go somewhere."
"They--go--somewhere," Dolly echoed the words. "Who go?"
"Everybody; teachers and scholars and all. There is a holiday; and Mrs.
Delancy takes them all to see something. One time it was a rope walk, I think; and another time it was a paper-mill; and sometimes it's a picture-gallery. It's something very interesting."
"I suppose we are not _obliged_ to go, are we, if we don't want to?"
"Oh, but we _do_ want to. I do."
"I would just as lief be at home with my Aunt Harry," said Dolly, looking lovingly at the book-case. But Christina turned away from it.
"They dress a great deal at this school," she said. "Does your mother dress you a great deal?"
"I don't know," said Dolly. "I don't know what you mean."
"Well, what's your school dress? what is it made of?"
"My school dress for every day! It is grey poplin. It is not new."
"Poplin will do, I suppose," said Christina. "But some of the girls wear silk; old silk dresses, you know, but really handsome still, and very stylish."
"What do you mean by 'stylish'?" said Dolly.
"Why don't you know what 'stylish' means?"
"No."
Christina looked doubtfully at her new little companion. Where could Dolly have come from, and what sort of people could she belong to, who did not know _that?_ The truth was, that Dolly being an only child and living at home with her father and mother, had led a very childish life up to this time; and her mother, owing to some invalidism, had lately been withdrawn from the gay world and its doings. So, though the thing was greatly upon her mother's heart, the word had never made itself familiar to Dolly's ear. Christina was reassured, however, by observing that the little girl's dress was quite what it ought to be, and certainly bespoke her as belonging to people who "knew what was what."
So the practice was all right, and Dolly needed only instruction in the theory.
"'Stylish,'"--she repeated. "It means--It is very hard to tell you what it means. Don't you know? 'Stylish' means that things have an air that belongs to the right kind of thing, and only what you see in a certain sort of people. It is the way things look when people know how."
"Know how, what?" inquired Dolly.
"Know how things ought to be; how they ought to be worn, and how they ought to be done."
"Then everybody ought to be stylish," said Dolly.
"Yes, but you cannot, my dear, unless you happen to know how."
"But I should think one could always know how things ought to be,"
Dolly went on. "The Bible tells."
"The Bible!" echoed Christina.
"Yes."
"The Bible tell one how to be stylish!"
"The Bible tells how things ought to be."
"Why, no, it don't, child! the Bible don't tell you what sort of a hat to put on."
"Yes, it does, Christina. The Bible says, 'Whether you eat or drink, or whatsoever you do, do all to the glory of God.' I can show you the words."
"Oh, that is something quite different. That has nothing to do with being stylish. How shall I make you understand? If your cravat wasn't tied in a nice bow there, it wouldn't be stylish."
"Well," returned Dolly, "it wouldn't be to the glory of God either."
"What has that to do with it?"
"I think it would be wrong for a Christian to be anything but nice."
"Oh, it isn't being _nice!_" said Christina. "Your dress wouldn't be stylish if it hadn't those flounces."
"And is it now?"
"Yes--I think it is. I should say, your mother knows what is what. It isn't very easy to be stylish if you are poor; but I've seen people do it, though."
"I don't think I understand, quite," said Dolly. "But when I am old enough to dress myself,--to choose my own dresses, I mean, I shall dress to please Jesus, Christina."
"You can't," said Christina. "I never heard of such a thing. It's making religion little, I think, to talk so."
"I think, if religion isn't little, it'll _do_ so," answered Dolly.
Whereby each kept her own opinion; notwithstanding which, at the end of the afternoon they separated, mutually pleased each with her new acquaintance.