Within an encircling wall of delicate, candied tracery was heaped a little mound of creamy frost, the sides of great strawberries showing here and there among the veins and specks of crimson juice.
Miss Panney raised her eyes from this creation to the face of her hostess.
"Kitty," said she, "is this the doctor's birthday ?" "No," answered Mrs.Tolbridge, with a smile; "he was born in January." "Yours then, perhaps ?" Mrs.Tolbridge shook her head.
"A dollar and a half," thought the old lady, "and perhaps more.

Five dollars at the very least for the meal.

If the doctor makes that much between meals, day in and day out, she ought to be thankful." The dainty concoction to which the blazing-eyed old lady now applied herself was something she had never before tasted, and she became of the opinion that Kipper would not get up a dish of that sort, and so much of it, for less than two dollars.
"There was a Methodist preacher," she said, spoonful after spoonful of the cold and fruity concoction melting in her mouth as she spoke, "a regular apostle of the poor, named Lorenzo Dow.

How I would like to have him here.

He was a man who would let people know in trumpet tones, by day and by night, what he thought of wicked, wasteful prodigality, no matter how pleasant it might be, how easy it might be, or how proper in people who could afford it.