I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was fixed.

“Oh!  You know what Ma is, Esther,” she returned.  “It’s impossible to say whether she knows it or not.  She has been told it often enough; and when she is told it, she only gives me a placid look, as if I was I don’t know what—­a steeple in the distance,” said Caddy with a sudden idea; “and then she shakes her head and says ‘Oh, Caddy, Caddy, what a tease you are!’ and goes on with the Borrioboola letters.”

“And about your wardrobe, Caddy?” said I. For she was under no restraint with us.

“Well, my dear Esther,” she returned, drying her eyes, “I must do the best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him.  If the question concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it and would be quite excited.  Being what it is, she neither knows nor cares.”

Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother, but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I am afraid it was.  We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a little scheme that made her perfectly joyful.  This was her staying with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and saving, and doing the very best we could think of to make the most of her stock.  My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her out again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Jellyby had found in the docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her.  What my guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it would be difficult to say, but we thought it right to compound for no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet.  He agreed to this compromise, and if Caddy had ever been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat down to work.

She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her fingers as much as she had been used to ink them.  She could not help reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart and partly with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soon got over that and began to improve rapidly.  So day after day she, and my darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out of the town, and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.