was more in Leslie Goldthwaite, even without touching upon the deep things, than all this. Only a pretty part did not quite satisfy:  she had capacity for something more.  In spite of the lovely Moorish costume to be contrived out of blue silk and white muslin, and to contrast so picturesquely with Jeannie’s crimson, and the soft, snowy drapery of Elinor, she would have been half willing to be the “discreet Kadiga” instead; for the old woman had really to look something as well as somehow, and there was a spirit and a fun in that.

The pros and cons and possibilities were working themselves gradually clear to her thoughts, as she sat and listened, with external attention in the beginning, to Sin Saxon’s chatter.  Ideas about the adaptation of her dress-material, and the character she could bring out of, or get into, her part, mingled themselves together; and Irving’s delicious old legend that she had read hundreds of times, entranced, as a child, repeated itself in snatches to her recollection.  Jeannie must be stately; that would quite suit her.  Elinor—­must just be Elinor.  Then the airs and graces remained for herself.  She thought she could illustrate with some spirit the latent coquetry of the imprisoned beauty; she believed, notwithstanding the fashion in which the story measured out their speech in rations,—­always an appropriate bit, and just so much of it to each,—­that the gay Zorayda must have had the principal hand in their affairs; must have put the others up to mischief, and coaxed most winningly the discreet Kadiga.  She could make something out of it:  it shouldn’t be mere flat prettiness.  She began to congratulate herself upon the character.  And then her ingenious fancy flew off to something else that had occurred to her, and that she had only secretly proposed to Sin Saxon; an illustration of a certain ancient nursery ballad, to vary by contrast the pathetic representations of “Auld Robin Gray” and “The Lady of Shalott.”  It was a bright plan, and she was nearly sure she could carry it out; but it was not a “pretty part,” and Sin Saxon had thought it fair she should have one; therefore Zorayda.  All this was reason why Leslie’s brain was busy, like her fingers, as she sat and sewed on the green curtain, and let Sin Saxon talk.  Till Miss Craydocke said that “something always gets crowded out,” and so those words came to her in the midst of all.

The Josselyns went away to their own room when the last rings had been sewn on; and the curtain was ready, as had been promised, at ten o’clock.  Leslie stayed, waiting for Dakie Thayne to come and fetch it.  While she sat there, silent, by the window, Miss Craydocke brought out a new armful of something from a drawer, and came and placed her Shaker rocking-chair beside her.  Leslie looked around, and saw her lap full of two little bright plaid dresses.

“It’s only the buttonholes,” said Miss Craydocke.  “I’m going to make them now, before they find me out.”