To tell the truth, our little Jerry was rather vain. Passionately fond
of pictures and flowers, and quick to detect everything beautiful both
in art and nature, she knew that the little face she sometimes saw in
Mrs. Crawford's old-fashioned mirror was pretty, and after the day when
Dick St. Claire told her that her hair was 'awful handsome,' she had
felt a pride in it and in herself, which all Mrs. Crawford's
asseverations that 'Handsome is that handsome does' could not destroy.
Maude Tracy's hair was black and straight, and here she felt she had the
advantage over her.
'I do hope we shall see her,' she said to Harold, as she danced along,
swaying her bonnet and shaking her hair. 'Do you think we shall?'
Harold thought it doubtful, and, even if they did, it was not likely she
would speak to them, he said.
'Why not?' Jerry asked, and he replied:
'Oh, I suppose they feel big because they are rich and we are poor.'
'But why ain't I rich, too? Why don't I live at the park like Maude, and
wear low-necked aprons instead of this old high one?' Jerry asked; but
Harold could not tell, and only said:
'Would you rather live at the park than with me?'
'No,' Jerry answered, promptly, stopping short and digging her heel into
the soft loam of the path.
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