As they went to their rooms that night,—or rather to their room, since the number of guests in the house made it necessary for Brenda and Julia to share the same room,—“Julia,” said Brenda, “there’s one thing I’m very sorry for. My present to Agnes is n’t really my present.”
“Why, what do you mean, Brenda?”
“Well, you know that I am still saving up for Mrs. Rosa’s money; why, really it seems as if it would take me years, and so I never have anything to spend as I wish. Don’t you think it’s rubbing it in rather hard to make me pay it all back?”
Brenda’s tone was so melancholy, so absurdly melancholy, that Julia laughed in spite of herself. Then, fearful lest she might have offended her, responded,—
“It certainly is rather hard for you. But uncle Robert evidently wishes to teach you a lesson.”
“You see, he made me calculate just how much I could afford to spend for Agnes, and he really kept me down to ten dollars. That does n’t seem much to spend for a wedding present for your own sister, does it?”
“Oh, Agnes will never think of the cost of what you give her, and I know that she was perfectly delighted with that little cream jug. It really is as pretty as can be, and it’s heavy enough in proportion to its size.”
“Well, if it had n’t been for the fuss about this Rosa money, I should have been let spend three times as much. Oh, Julia, I ’ve hardly been able to think about it this week, we ’ve been, so busy; but if that bicycle man really is the one who took Mrs. Rosa’s money, I don’t
