price, by any means.  Knowing that the dress would be an innovation that would set her mother storming and fill Kate with envy, which would probably culminate in the demand that the goods be returned and exchanged for dirt-brown, when she reached home Nancy Ellen climbed from the wagon and told her father that she was going on to Adam’s to have Agatha cut out her dress so that she could begin to sew on it that night.  Such commendable industry met his hearty approval, so he told her to go and he would see that Kate did her share of the work.  Wise Nancy Ellen came home and sat her down to sew on her gorgeous frock, while the storm she had feared raged in all its fury; but the goods was cut, and could not be returned.  Yet, through it, a miracle happened:  Nancy Ellen so appreciated herself in pink that the extreme care she used with that dress saved it from half the trips of a dirt-brown one to the wash board and the ironing table; while, marvel of marvels, it did not shrink, it did not fade, also it wore like buckskin.  The result was that before the season had passed Kate was allowed to purchase a pale blue, which improved her appearance quite as much in proportion as pink had Nancy Ellen’s; neither did the blue fade nor shrink nor require so much washing, for the same reason.  Three years the pink dress had been Nancy Ellen’s piece de resistance; now she had a new one, much the same, yet conspicuously different.  This was a daring rose colour, full and wide, peeping white embroidery trimming, and big pearl buttons, really a beautiful dress, made in a becoming manner.  Kate looked at it in cheerful envy.  Never mind!  The coming summer she would have a blue that would make that pink look silly.  From the dress she turned to Nancy Ellen, barely in time to see her bend her head and smirk, broadly, smilingly, approvingly, at her reflection in the glass.

“For mercy sake, what is the matter with you?” demanded Kate, ripping a strand of hair in sudden irritation.

“Oh, something lovely!” answered her sister, knowing that this was her chance to impart the glad tidings herself; if she lost it, Agatha would get the thrill of Kate’s surprise.  So Nancy Ellen opened her drawer and slowly produced and set upon her bureau a cabinet photograph of a remarkably strong-featured, handsome young man.  Then she turned to Kate and smiled a slow, challenging smile.  Kate walked over and picked up the picture, studying it intently but in growing amazement.

“Who is he?” she asked finally.

“My man!” answered Nancy Ellen, possessively, triumphantly.

Kate stared at her.  “Honest to God?” she cried in wonderment.

“Honest!” said Nancy Ellen.

“Where on earth did you find him?” demanded Kate.

“Picked him out of the blackberry patch,” said Nancy Ellen.

“Those darn blackberries are always late,” said Kate, throwing the picture back on the bureau.  “Ain’t that just my luck!  You wouldn’t touch the raspberries.  I had to pick them every one myself.  But the minute I turn my back, you go pick a man like that, out of the blackberry patch.  I bet a cow you wore your pink chambray, and carried grandmother’s old blue bowl.”