onant
as the treble voices of children singing carols in dewy English woods;
berthas, flounces, plumes, stomachers, lappets, veils, frivolous as the
strains of a German waltz played on Liddell's band.

An hour passed, but the difficulty of deciding if Olive's dress should
be composed of silk or Irish poplin was very great, for, determined that
all should be humiliated, Mrs. Barton laid her plans amid designs for
night and morning; birds fluttering through leafy trees, birds drowsing
on bending boughs, and butterflies folding their wings. At a critical
moment, however, an assistant announced that Mrs. Scully was waiting.
The ladies started; desperate effort was made; rosy clouds and veils of
silver tissue were spoken of; but nothing could be settled, and on the
staircase the ladies had to squeeze into a corner to allow Violet and
Mrs. Scully to pass.

'How do you do, Olive? How do you do, Alice? and you, Mrs. Barton, how
do you do? And what are you going to wear? Have you decided on your
dress?'

'Oh! That is a secret that could be told to no one; oh, not for worlds!'
said Mrs. Barton.

'I'm sure it will be very beautiful,' replied Mrs. Scully, with just a
reminiscence of the politeness of the Galway grocery business in her
voice.

'I hear you have taken a house in Fitzwilliam Square for the season?'
said Mrs. Barton.

'Yes, we are very comfortable; you must come and see us. You are at the
Shelbourne, I believe?'

'Come to tea with us,' cried Violet. 'We are always at home about five.'

'We shall be delighted,' returned Mrs. Barton.

Mrs. Scully's acquaintance with Mrs. Symond was of the slightest; but,
knowing that claims to fashion in Dublin are judged by the intimacy you
affect with the dressmaker, she shook her warmly by the hand, and
addressed her as dear Mrs. Symond. To the Christian name of Helen none
less than a Countess dare to aspire.

'And how well you are looking, dear Mrs. Symond; and when are you going
to take your daughters to the Castle?'

'Oh, not for some time yet; my eldest is only sixteen.'

Mrs. Symonds had three daughters to bring out, and she hoped when her
feet were set on the redoubtable ways of Cork Hill, her fashionable
customers would extend to her a cordial helping hand. Mrs. Symonds' was
one of the myriad little schemes with which Dublin is honeycombed, and
although she received Mrs. Scully's familiarities somewhat coldly, she
kept her eyes fixed upon Violet. The insidious th