She did not see Jennie alone for one moment. Grandma Parlin did.
"Jennie," said she, taking her into the parlor to show her a new
shell, "are you going with our little girls, to-morrow, to sell rags?"
"I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure," replied Jennie, looking hard at the
sofa. She longed to make an open confession, and get rid of the
troublesome money, but had not the courage to do it without some help
from Dotty.
"O, dear," thought she, "I feel just as wicked with that money in my
bosom! Seems as if she could hear it crumple. If Dotty would only let
me talk to her first!"
But Dotty continued as unapproachable as the Pope of Rome. Eight
o'clock came, and the two unhappy little girls went slowly up stairs
to bed. Dotty, in her lofty pride, tried to make her little friend
feel herself a sinner; while Jennie, ready to hide herself in the
potato-bin for shame, was, at the same time, very angry with the
self-satisfied Miss Dimple. She was awed by her superior goodness, but
did not love her any the better for it. Why should she? Dotty's
goodness lacked
"_Humility_, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot.
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