y one is never tired of such
things--see," laying me out at full length in her lap, "this is a
pocket-handkerchief--I wish your opinion of it."

Clara examined me very closely, and, in spite of something like a
frown, and an expression of dissatisfaction that gathered about her
pretty face--for Clara was pretty, too--I could detect some of the
latent feelings of the sex, as she gazed at my exquisite lace, perfect
ornamental work, and unequaled fineness. Still, her education and
habits triumphed, and she would not commend what she regarded as
ingenuity misspent, and tasteless, because senseless, luxury.

"This handkerchief cost ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS, Clara," said Eudosia,
deliberately and with emphasis, imitating, as near as possible, the
tone of Bobbinet & Co.

"Is it possible, Eudosia! What a sum to pay for so useless a thing!"

"Useless! Do you call a pocket-handkerchief useless?"

"Quite so, when it is made in a way to render it out of the question to
put it to the uses for which it was designed. I should as soon think of
trimming gum shoes with satin, as to trim a handkerchief in that style."

"Style? Yes, I flatter myself it IS style to have a handkerchief that
cost a hundred dollars. Why, Clara Caverly, the highest priced thing of
this sort that was ever before sold in New York only came to
seventy-nine dollars. Mine is superior to all, by twenty-one dollars!"

Clara Caverly sighed. It was not with regret, or envy, or any unworthy
feeling, however; it was a fair, honest, moral sigh, that had its birth
in the thought of how much good a hundred dollars might have done,
properly applied. It was under the influence of this feeling, too, that
she said, somewhat inopportunely it must be confessed, though quite
innocently--

"Well, Eudosia, I am glad you can afford such a luxury, at all events.
Now is a good time to get your subscription to the Widows' and Orphans'
Society. Mrs. Thoughtful has desired me to ask for it half a dozen
times; I dare say it has escaped you that you are quite a twelvemonth
in arrear."

"NOW a good time to ask for three dollars! What, just when I've paid a
hundred dollars for a pocket-handkerchief? That was not said with your
usual good sense, my dear. People must be MADE of money to pay out so
much at one time."

"When may I tell Mrs. Thoughtful, then, that you will send it to her?"

"I am sure that is more than I can say. Pa will be in no hurry to give
me more money soon, and I want