* Here flashes on the cultivated mind the sprightly couplet,

      “Oh, that I had my mistress at this bay,
       To kiss and clip me—­till I run away.”

SHAKESPEARE.—­Venus and Adonis.

Lucy answered this fusillade in detail.  “You know, aunt, dressmakers bring us their failures, and we, by our hints, get them made into successes.”

“So we do.”

“So I said to myself, ’Now why not bring a little intelligence to bear at the beginning, and make these things right at once?’ Well, I bought several books, and studied them, and practiced cutting out, in large sheets of brown paper first; next I ventured a small flight—­I made Jane a gown.”

“What! your servant?”

“Yes.  I had a double motive; first attempts are seldom brilliant, and it was better to fail in merino, and on Jane, than on you, madam, and in silk.  In the next place, Jane had been giving herself airs, and objecting to do some work of that kind for me, so I thought it a good opportunity to teach her that dignity does not consist in being disobliging.  The poor girl is so ashamed now:  she comes to me in her merino frock, and pesters me all day to let her do things for me.  I am at my wit’s end sometimes to invent unreal distresses, like the writers of fiction, you know; and, aunty, dear, you will not have to pay for the stuff:  to tell you the real truth, I overheard Mr. Bazalgette say something about the length of your last dressmaker’s bill, and, as I have been very economical at Font Abbey, I found I had eighteen pounds to spare, so I said nothing, but I thought we will have a dress apiece that nobody shall have to pay for.”

“Eighteen pounds?  These two lovely dresses, lace, trimmings, and all, for eighteen pounds!”

“Yes, aunt.  So you see those good souls that make our dresses have imposed upon us without ceremony:  they would have been twenty-five pounds apiece; now would they not?”

“At least.  Well, you are a clever girl.  I might as well try on yours, as you won’t.”

“Do, dear.”

She tried on Lucy’s gown, and, as before, got two looking-glasses into a line, twisted and twirled, and inspected herself north, south, east and west, and in an hour and a half resigned herself to take the dress off.  Lucy observed with a sly smile that her gayety declined, and she became silent and pensive.

“In the dead of the night, when with labor oppressed, All mortals enjoy the sweet blessing of rest,” a phantom stood at Lucy’s bedside and fingered her.  She awoke with a violent scream, the first note of which pierced the night’s dull ear, but the second sounded like a wail from a well, being uttered a long way under the bedclothes.  “Hush! don’t be a fool,” cried the affectionate phantom; and kneaded the uncertain form through the bedclothes; “fancy screeching so at sight of me!” Then gradually a single eye peeped timidly between two white hands that held the sheets ready for defense like a shield.