And now Elizabeth stood forth in her own proper likeness, unconcealed by bonnet or shawl, or maternal protection.  The pinafore scarcely covered her gaunt neck and long arms; that tremendous head of rough, dusky hair was evidently for the first time gathered into a comb.  Thence elf locks escaped in all directions, and were forever being pushed behind her ears, or rubbed (not smoothed; there was nothing smooth about her) back from her forehead, which, Hilary noticed, was low, broad, and full.  The rest of her face, except the before-mentioned eyes was absolutely and undeniably plain.  Her figure, so far as the pinafore exhibited it, was undeveloped and ungainly, the chest being contracted and the shoulders rounded, as if with carrying children or other weights while still a growing girl.  In fact, nature and circumstances had apparently united in dealing unkindly with Elizabeth Hand.

Still here she was; and what was to be done with her?

Having sent her with the small burden, which was apparently all her luggage, to the little room—­formerly a box-closet—­where she was to sleep, the Misses Leaf—­or as facetious neighbors called them, the Miss Leaves—­took serious counsel together over their tea.

Tea itself suggested the first difficulty.  They were always in the habit of taking that meal, and indeed every other, in the kitchen.  It saved time, trouble, and fire, besides leaving the parlor always tidy for callers, chiefly pupils’ parents, and preventing these latter from discovering that the three orphan daughters of Henry Leaf, Esq., solicitor, and sisters of Henry Leaf, Junior, Esq., also solicitor, but whose sole mission in life seemed to have been to spend every thing, make every body miserably, marry, and die, that these three ladies did always wait upon themselves at meal-time, and did sometimes breakfast without butter, and dine without meat.  Now this system would not do any longer.

“Besides, there is no need for it,” said Hilary, cheerfully.  “I am sure we can well afford both to keep and to feed a servant, and to have a fire in the parlor every day.  Why not take our meals there, and sit there regularly of evenings?”

“We must,” added Selina, decidedly.  “For my part, I couldn’t eat, or sew, or do any thing with that great hulking girl sitting starting opposite, or standing; for how could we ask her to sit with us?  Already, what must she have thought of us—­people who take tea in the kitchen?”

“I do not think that matters,” said the eldest sister, gently, after a moment’s silence.  “Every body in the town knows who and what we are, or might, if they chose to inquire.  We cannot conceal our poverty if we tried; and I don’t think any body looks down upon us for it.  Not even since we began to keep school, which you thought was such a terrible thing, Selina.”

“And it was.  I have never reconciled myself to teaching the baker’s two boys and the grocer’s little girl.  You were wrong, Johanna, you ought to have drawn the line somewhere, and it ought to have excluded trades-people.”