A DISCOVERY.

While Bessie Fairfax was pronouncing the web of her fortunes dull, Fate was spinning some mingled threads to throw into the pattern and give it intricacy and liveliness.  The next day Mrs. Stokes chaperoned her to Norminster in quest of that blue bonnet.  Mrs. Betts went also, and had a world of shopping to help in on behalf of her young mistress.  They drove from the station first to the chief tailor’s in High street, the ladies’ habitmaker, then to the fashionable hosier, the fashionable haberdasher.  By three o’clock Bessie felt herself flagging.  What did she want with so many fine clothes? she inquired of Mrs. Stokes with an air of appeal.  She was learning that to get up only one character in life as a pageant involves weariness, labor, pains, and money.

“You are going to stay at Brentwood,” rejoined her chaperone conclusively.

“And is it so dull at Brentwood that dressing is a resource?” Bessie demurred.

“Wait and see.  You will have pleasant occupation enough, I should think.  Most girls would call this an immense treat.  But if you are really tired we will go to Miss Jocund now.  Mrs. Betts can choose ribbons and gloves.”

Miss Jocund was a large-featured woman of a grave and wise countenance.  She read the newspaper in intervals of business, and was reading it now with her glasses on.  Lowering the paper, she recognized a favorite customer in Mrs. Stokes, and laid the news by, but with reluctance.  Duty forbade, however, that this lady should be remitted to an assistant.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Jocund, but it is important—­it is about a bonnet,” cried Mrs. Stokes gayly.  “I have brought you Miss Fairfax of Abbotsmead.  I am sure you will make her something quite lovely.”

Miss Jocund took off her glasses, and gave Bessie a deliberate, discerning look-over.  “Very happy, ma’am, indeed.  Blue, of course?” she said.  Bessie acquiesced.  “Any taste, any style?” the milliner further queried.

“Yes.  Give me always simplicity and no imitations,” was the unhesitating, concise reply.

“Miss Fairfax and I understand one another.  Anything more to-day, ladies?” Bessie and Mrs. Stokes considered for a moment, and then said they would not detain Miss Jocund any longer from her newspaper.  “Ah, ladies! who can exist altogether on chiffons?” rejoined the milliner, half apologetically.  “I do love my Times—­I call it my ‘gentleman.’  I cannot live without my gentleman.  Yes, ladies, he does smell of tobacco.  That is because he spends a day and night in the bar-parlor of the Shakespeare Tavern before he visits me.  So do evil communications corrupt good manners.  The door, Miss Lawson.  Good-afternoon, ladies.”

“You must not judge of Miss Jocund as a milliner and nothing more,” her chaperone instructed Bessie when they had left the shop.  “She is a lady herself.  Her father was Dr. Jocund, the best physician in Norminster when you could find him sober.  He died, and left his daughter with only debts for a fortune; she turned milliner, and has paid every sixpence of them.”