king closely; and my mother
Chided her for delay; but no reply
Was made, save only what the pleading eyes
Could not withhold. Then tendering a scrap
Of paper, record of her paltry charge,
She meekly stood. 'Pooh! bring it here next week,'
My mother said. 'No!' turning round, I cried;
'Let her be paid at once; there must be money
In the house somewhere; it may be a loss,
An inconvenience, for her to come back
Just for a trifling sum.'--'Impertinent!'
My mother kindling, cried. 'Do you rule here?'
'I can return,' timidly said the girl.
Then a gold thimble from my drawer I took,
And offered it, remarking, 'Keep or sell it,
To hold you good for all your wasted time.'
'My time,--what is it worth?' replied the girl,
Motioning her refusal, but with smiles
Of speechless gratitude, and then escaping
Before I could prevent her.

"'Novel-reading
Has brought you to this insipidity,'
My mother said: 'such sentimental pap,
You never got from me. Come, hurry down;
Put off that sullen look. The carriages
Begin to roll; the guests are on the stairs.
Learn to command your smiles, my dear. Now go.'

"So down I went, but in no conquering mood.
I did not scrutinize the festive dresses;
Of the sad hearts I thought, the poor thin hands
That put of life somewhat in every stitch
For a grudged pittance. All disguises fell;
Voices betrayed the speakers in their tones,
Despite of flattering words; and smiles revealed
The weariness or hatred they would hide.
And so, preoccupied and grave, I looked
On all the gayety; and reigning belles
Took heart to find in me no coming rival.

"Lent now was near; the time of all diversion
And visiting was over; and my mother
Summed up her griefs in this one lamentation:
'The season gone, and not one offer yet!
You, Mary, are the first one of my daughters
Whose coming-out so flat a failure proved.
Think of your sister Julia; her first winter
Brought Hammersley to her feet. A splendid match!
First cousin to a lord! How envious
Were all the dowagers at my success!
If I've not done all that a mother could,
Tell me wherein I've failed. Yet one year more
I shall allow you for your trial. Then,
If you have made no step in the direction
Of matrimony, why, you must go off
To Ireland, to America, or France,
And leave the field for your next younger
For Susan.'--'She is welc