sses. Nan, you are
right: needlework is our forte; nothing is a trouble to us. Few girls
have such clever fingers, I believe; and then you and Dulce have such
taste. Mrs. Paine once told me that we were the best-dressed girls in
the neighborhood, and she wished Carrie looked half as well. I am
telling you this, not from vanity, but because I do believe we can
turn our one talent to account. We should be miserable governesses; we
do not want to separate and seek situations as lady helps or
companions; we do not mean to fail in letting lodgings; but if we do
not succeed as good dressmakers, never believe me again."

"Dressmakers!" almost shrieked Dulce. But Nan, who had expressed
herself willing to take in plain needlework, only looked at her sister
with mute gravity; her little world was turned so completely upside
down, everything was so unreal, that nothing at this moment could have
surprised her.

"Dressmakers!" she repeated, vaguely.

"Yes, yes," replied Phillis, still more eagerly. The inspiration had
come to her in a moment, full-fledged and grown up, like Minerva from
the head of Jupiter. Just from those chance words of Nan's she had
grasped the whole thing in a moment. Now, indeed she felt that she was
clever; here at least was something striking and original; she took no
notice of Dulce's shocked exclamation; she fixed her eyes solemnly on
Nan. "Yes, yes; what does it matter what the outside world says? We
are not like other girls; we never were; people always said we were so
original. Necessity strikes out strange paths some times. We could not
do such a thing here; no, no, I never could submit to that myself," as
Nan involuntarily shuddered; "but at Hadleigh, where no one knows us,
where we shall be among strangers. And then, you see, Miss Monks is
dead."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what does she mean?" cried Dulce, despairingly;
"and what do we care about Miss Monks, if the creature be dead, or
about Miss Anybody, if we have got to do such dreadful things?"

"My dear," returned Phillis, with compassionate irony, "if we had to
depend upon you for ideas----" and here she made an eloquent pause.
"Our last tenant for the Friary was Miss Monks, and Miss Monks was a
dressmaker; and, though perhaps I ought not to say it, it does seem a
direct leading of Providence, putting such a thought into my head."

"I am afraid Dulce and I are very slow and stupid," returned Nan,
putting her hair rather wearily from her face: