"What put that idea into your head?" she asked.
"Cecy said so when I told her about your beautiful night-gown."
Cousin Helen laughed again.
"Well," she said, "I'll tell you what I think, Katy. Pretty things are
no more 'worldly' than ugly ones, except when they spoil us by making us
vain, or careless of the comfort of other people. And sickness is such a
disagreeable thing in itself, that unless sick people take great pains,
they soon grow to be eyesores to themselves and everybody about them. I
don't think it is possible for an invalid to be too particular. And when
one has the back-ache, and the head-ache, and the all-over ache," she
added, smiling, "there isn't much danger of growing vain because of a
ruffle more or less on one's night-gown, or a bit of bright ribbon."
Then she began to arrange the flowers, touching each separate one
gently, and as if she loved it.
"What a queer noise!" she exclaimed, suddenly stopping.
It _was_ queer--a sort of snuffing and snorting sound, as if a walrus or
a sea-horse were promenading up and down in the hall. Katy opened the
door. Behold! there were John and Dorry, very red in the face from
flattening their noses against the key-hole, in a vain attempt to see if
Cousin Helen were up and ready to receive company.
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