“Now,” said Barbara, stooping to peer into the corners of the deep chest, “I think that’s all.”  She began, hurriedly, to price everything as she passed it to Eloise, giving the highest price each time.  When she had finished, she was amazed at Miss Wynne’s face—­it was so full of resentment.

“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Eloise, in a queer voice, “that you are asking that for these?”

The blue eyes threatened to overflow, but Barbara straightened herself proudly.  “It is all hand work,” she said, with quiet dignity, “and the material is the very best.  I could not possibly afford to sell it for less.”

“You goose,” laughed Eloise, “you have misunderstood me.  There is not a thing here that is not worth at least a third more than you are asking for it.  Give me a pencil and paper and some pins.”

[Sidenote:  Higher Prices]

Barbara obeyed, wondering what this beautiful visitor would do next.  Eloise took up every garment and examined it critically.  Then she made a new price tag and pinned it over the old one.  She advanced even the plainest garments at least a third, the more elaborate ones were doubled, and some of the embroidered things were even tripled in price.  When she came to the shirtwaist patterns, exquisitely embroidered upon sheerest handkerchief linen, she shamelessly multiplied the price by four and pinned the new tag on.

“Oh,” gasped Barbara; “nobody will ever pay that much for things to wear.”

“Somebody is going to right now,” announced Eloise, with decision.  “I’ll take this, and this, and this,” she went on, rapidly choosing, “and these, and these, and this.  I’ll take those four for a friend of mine who is going to be married next week—­this solves the eternal problem of wedding-presents—­and all of these for next Santa Claus time.

“I can use all the handkerchiefs, and every pin-cushion cover and corsage-pad you’ve made.  Please don’t sell anything else until I’ve heard from some more of my friends to whom I have already written.  And you’re not to offer one of these exquisite things to those unappreciative people at the hotel, for I have a letter from a friend who is on the Board of Directors of the Woman’s Exchange, and got a chance for you to sell there.  How long have you been doing this?”

[Sidenote:  In a Whirl of Confusion]

“Seven or eight years,” murmured Barbara.  Her senses were so confused that the room seemed to be whirling and her face was almost as white as the lingerie.

“And those women at the hotel would really buy these things at such ridiculous prices?”

“Not often,” answered Barbara, trying to smile.  “They would not pay so much.  Sometimes we had to sell for very little more than the cost of the material.  One woman said we ought not to expect so much for things that were not made with a sewing-machine, but of course, Aunt Miriam had been to the city and she knew that hand work was worth more.”