Desire sat still until the dinner-bell rang, forgetful of her dress, forgetful of all but one thought that she spoke out as she rose at last at the summons to take off her things in a hurry,—­

“I wonder,—­I wonder—­if I shall ever live anything all straight out!”

XIII.

PIECES OF WORLDS.

Mr. Dickens never put a truer thought into any book, than he put at the beginning of “Little Dorrit.”

That, from over land and sea, from hundreds, thousands of miles away, are coming the people with whom we are to have to do in our lives; and that, “what is set to us to do to them, and what is set for them to do to us, will all be done.”

Not only from far places in this earth, over land and sea,—­but from out the eternities, before and after,—­from which souls are born, and into which they die,—­all the lines of life are moving continually which are to meet and join, and bend, and cross our own.

But it is only with a little piece of this world, as far as we can see it in this short and simple story, that we have now to do.

Rosamond Holabird was coming down to Boston.

With all her pretty, fresh, delicate, high-lady ways, with her beautiful looks, and her sweet readiness for true things and noble living, she was coming, for a few days only,—­the cooperative housekeeping was going on at Westover, and she could not be spared long,—­right in among them here in Aspen Street, and Shubarton Place, and Orchard Street, and Harrisburg Square, where Mrs. Scherman lived whom she was going to stay with.  But a few days may be a great deal.

Rosamond Holabird was coming for far more than she knew.  Among other things she was coming to get a lesson; a lesson right on in a course she was just now learning; a lesson of next things, and best things, and real folks.

You see how it happened,—­where the links were; Miss Craydocke, and Sin Scherman, and Leslie Goldthwaite, were dear friends, made to each other one summer among the mountains.  Leslie had had Sin and Miss Craydocke up at Z——­, and Rosamond and Leslie were friends, also.

Mrs. Frank Scherman had a pretty house in Harrisburg Square.  She had not much time for paying fashionable calls, or party-going, or party-giving.  As to the last, she did not think Frank had money enough yet to “circumfuse,” she said, in that way.

But she had six lovely little harlequin cups on a side-shelf in her china closet, and six different-patterned breakfast plates, with colored borders to match the cups; rose, and brown, and gray, and vermilion, and green, and blue.  These were all the real china she had, and were for Frank and herself and the friends whom she made welcome,—­and who might come four at once,—­for day and night.  She delighted in “little stays;” in girls who would go into the nursery with her, and see Sinsie in her bath; or into the kitchen, and help her mix