She got a horrid white muslin with dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child.
Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some.

In fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot.

Mother didn't say anything _then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and said: "I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear.

I knew you wanted it.

But it was not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear." She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug: "Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting to be vain, and too fond of dress." I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that self-discipline business.
But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline.
_Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane?
* * * * * _One week later._ She is.
I _know_ she is now.
I'm learning to cook--_to cook_! And it's Mother that says I must.