“I don’t care,” cried Prissy.  “To-day’s a great, long day, and Sunday’s for ever and ever, and Portsmouth’ll be always.”

“Can’t yer stop ter kerchy, and say—­Lud-o’-light ‘n’ massy, I donno what to tell ye ter say!” And Miss Hoskins sniffled and gurgled again, and gave it up.

“She has thanked us, I think,” said Miss Craydocke, in her simple way, “when she called us Godmothers!” The word came home to her good heart.  God had given her, the lonely woman, the larger motherhood.  “Brothers, and sisters, and mothers!” She thought how Christ traced out the relationships, and claimed them even to himself!

“Now, for once, you’re to be done up.  That’s general order number two,” Miss Craydocke said to the Josselyn girls, as they all first met together again after the Cliff party.  “We’ve worked together till we’re friends.  And so there’s not a word to be said.  We owe you time that we’ve taken, and more that we mean to take before you go.  I’ll tell you what for, when it’s necessary.”

It was a nicer matter to get the Josselyns to be helped than to help.  It was not easy for them to bring forth their breadths and their linings, and their braids that were to be pieced, and their trimmings that were to be turned, and to lay bare to other eyes all their little economies of contrivance; but Miss Craydocke managed it by simple straightforwardness,—­by not behaving as if there were anything to be glossed over or ignored.  Instead of hushing up about economies, she brought them forward, and gave them a most cheery and comfortable, not to say dignified air.  It was all ordinary matter of course,—­the way everybody did, or ought to do.  This was the freshest end of this breadth, and should go down; this other had a darn that might be cut across, and a straight piecing made, for which the slope of the skirt would allow,—­she should do it so; that hem might be taken off altogether and a new one turned; this was a very nice trimming, and plenty of it, and the wrong side was brighter than the right; she knew a way of joining worsted braid that never showed,—­you might have a dozen pieces in the binding of a skirt and not be noticed.  This little blue frock had no trimming; they would finish that at home.  No, the prettiest thing in the world for it would be pipings of black silk, and Miss Craydocke had some bits just right for covering cord, thick as a board, big enough for nothing else; and out they came, as did many another thing, without remark, from her bags and baskets.  She had hooks and eyes, and button-fasteners, when these gave out; she used from her own cotton-spools and skeins of silk; she had tailors’ twist for buttonholes, and large black cord for the pipings; and these were but working implements, like scissors and thimble,—­taken for granted, without count.  There was nothing on the surface for the most shrinking delicacy to rub against; but there was a kindness that went down into the hearts of the two young girls continually.