“Seventy-five cents apiece,” said the old gentleman briskly.

“Seventy—­five—­cents!” repeated Nan, faintly.

“Yes, sissy; cheap at that, too.”

“I—­thought—­I didn’t know,” stammered Nannie, in a sore disappointment.  Then rallying her faltering courage, she asked:  “Don’t you ever sell any for ’leven cents?”

“Eleven cents?  Bless me, child!  Why, they cost—­Oh! may be you mean cotton ones?  Look a little like these.”

Nan nodded, glad to think it even probable that she had meant anything.

“Well, I don’t keep that kind, you see,” explained Mr. Carney, condescendingly.

Discouraged and forlorn, the little woman turned away.  She walked until she was quite out of sight of the store, and then paused to meditate.  What should she do?  It seemed dreadfully hard to give up her plan now when she had thought it all nicely settled.  There were plenty of stores in Bentley; some of them might sell handkerchiefs for eleven cents.  She glanced dubiously along the road leading to the town, and noticed that the sun was nearly out of sight behind the hills.

“But it stays light ever and ever so long after the sun sets,” she murmured, “and it didn’t seem a bit far when I rode to town with Aunt S’mantha.  I guess this store is most part way.  Anyhow, I just must have a bandana!” she added, as she once more caught sight of her soiled apron and muddy shoes.

She straightened her sun-bonnet, and started resolutely forward again.  She had grown to feel that the proposed purchase was in some way a reparation due to Aunt Samantha, and she could not give it up.  On and on trudged the tired little feet, aching wearily at last, but never hesitating nor turning back.  It seemed a long way, though.

“Wonder if I wont ever and ever come to where the houses get thicker,” she murmured.  “When I keep a store I’ll build it on the edge somewhere, so folks wont have to walk so far to get to it.”

After a time, the buildings did nestle more closely together, and, somewhat comforted, she stopped a moment to rest.  But she started suddenly to her feet as a light flashed upon her from an opposite window.  People were really beginning to light their lamps, and the daylight was almost gone.

Weariness was forgotten in the thought that night might fall before she could return, and she ran as fast as her light feet would carry her—­so swiftly and so far that she had nearly passed a small store without seeing it.

She checked her steps at this discovery, and entering, asked, breathlessly: 

“Oh,—­please,—­have you any ban-banners?”

“What? any what?” demanded a severe-looking lady, coming forward and eying Nan suspiciously through her spectacles.

“Bandaners,—­handkerchiefs,” explained Nannie, less confidently.

“Bandanas?  No; I don’t keep them,” responded the lady, very stiffly.

“Should think she might have been more p’lite, if I didn’t call it right,” commented the young traveler as she hurried along the street once more.  “Here’s another.”  This time there was only a boy in attendance.  He was head of the establishment when the proprietor went to supper, and he enjoyed his important position.