THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 65

to wear in a change from crape to lilac on a fine Easter Sun-
day. Jem could not help laughing in spite of herself, — then
wished her father could see it, — and so cried again.

However, she did not cry too hard to prevent her going to
the express office at once with the order for her reclining-
chair ; and by the time that she had done this, and got home,
her eyes were quite dry, and very bright. She walked right
into the sitting-room, and said, “I am going to carry on the
business myself.”

“ Jemima Jasper ! —”’

“Tam going to carry on the business myself,” repeated
Jem. Her mother fell through the mending-basket, and
Poppet tipped over the stove.

It seemed to Jem as if, with that single and simple remark
of hers, all the ordinary world fell through and tipped over.
The relations in light mourning expostulated. Everybody
expostulated. People wrote, called, called again, sent mes-
sages, were shocked, were sure it would n’t do, entreated,
threatened, argued, urged, — made as much commotion over
that one poor little girl’s sending to Chicago for that ‘“ de-
clining-chair,” as if she had proclaimed war against the Czar
of Russia on her own responsibility and resources.

They said, “ Why didn’t she let her uncle sell out the
stock for her ?”’

““ Why did n’t she take in plain sewing?”

“‘ Or she could teach a few little children at home.”

“6 Tt would be so much more suitable! ”