Sniffle, sniffle, sob, sniffle.

Out came—­out it had to come—­Maida’s $4.

“You blessed darling,” cried Grace, now a rainbow instead of sunset.  “I’ll pay the mean old thing and then I’m going to try on my dress.  I think it’s heavenly.  Come up and look at it.  I’ll pay the money back, a dollar a week—­honest I will.”

Thanksgiving.

The dinner was to be at noon.  At a quarter to twelve Grace switched into Maida’s room.  Yes, she looked charming.  Red was her color.  Maida sat by the window in her old cheviot skirt and blue waist darning a st—.  Oh, doing fancy work.

“Why, goodness me! ain’t you dressed yet?” shrilled the red one.  “How does it fit in the back?  Don’t you think these velvet tabs look awful swell?  Why ain’t you dressed, Maida?”

“My dress didn’t get finished in time,” said Maida.  “I’m not going to the dinner.”

“That’s too bad.  Why, I’m awfully sorry, Maida.  Why don’t you put on anything and come along—­it’s just the store folks, you know, and they won’t mind.”

“I was set on my purple,” said Maida.  “If I can’t have it I won’t go at all.  Don’t bother about me.  Run along or you’ll be late.  You look awful nice in red.”

At her window Maida sat through the long morning and past the time of the dinner at the store.  In her mind she could hear the girls shrieking over a pull-bone, could hear old Bachman’s roar over his own deeply-concealed jokes, could see the diamonds of fat Mrs. Bachman, who came to the store only on Thanksgiving days, could see Mr. Ramsay moving about, alert, kindly, looking to the comfort of all.

At four in the afternoon, with an expressionless face and a lifeless air she slowly made her way to Schlegel’s shop and told him she could not pay the $4 due on the dress.

“Gott!” cried Schlegel, angrily.  “For what do you look so glum?  Take him away.  He is ready.  Pay me some time.  Haf I not seen you pass mine shop every day in two years?  If I make clothes is it that I do not know how to read beoples because?  You will pay me some time when you can.  Take him away.  He is made goot; and if you look bretty in him all right.  So.  Pay me when you can.”

Maida breathed a millionth part of the thanks in her heart, and hurried away with her dress.  As she left the shop a smart dash of rain struck upon her face.  She smiled and did not feel it.

Ladies who shop in carriages, you do not understand.  Girls whose wardrobes are charged to the old man’s account, you cannot begin to comprehend—­you could not understand why Maida did not feel the cold dash of the Thanksgiving rain.

At five o’clock she went out upon the street wearing her purple dress.  The rain had increased, and it beat down upon her in a steady, wind-blown pour.  People were scurrying home and to cars with close-held umbrellas and tight buttoned raincoats.  Many of them turned their heads to marvel at this beautiful, serene, happy-eyed girl in the purple dress walking through the storm as though she were strolling in a garden under summer skies.