Anne's Impressions of Sunday-School

"Well, how do you like them?" said Marilla.

Anne was standing in the gable room, looking solemnly
at three new dresses spread out on the bed. One was of
snuffy colored gingham which Marilla had been tempted to
buy from a peddler the preceding summer because it looked
so serviceable; one was of black-and-white checkered
sateen which she had picked up at a bargain counter in the
winter; and one was a stiff print of an ugly blue shade
which she had purchased that week at a Carmody store.

She had made them up herself, and they were all made
alike--plain skirts fulled tightly to plain waists, with
sleeves as plain as waist and skirt and tight as sleeves
could be.

"I'll imagine that I like them," said Anne soberly.

"I don't want you to imagine it," said Marilla, offended.
"Oh, I can see you don't like the dresses! What is the
matter with them? Aren't they neat and clean and new?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you like them?"

"They're--they're not--pretty," said Anne reluctantly.

"Pretty!" Marilla sniffed. "I didn't trouble my head about
getting pretty dresses for you. I don't believe in pampering
vanity, Anne, I'll tell you that right off. Those dresses
are good, sensible, serviceable dresses, without any frills
or furbelows about them, and they're all you'll get this
summer. The brown gingham and the blue print will do
you for school when you begin to go. The sateen is for
church and Sunday school. I'll expect you to keep them
neat and clean and not to tear them. I should think you'd
be grateful to get most anything after those skimpy wincey
things you've been wearing."