ldthwaite or Helen
Josselyn,--Mrs. Ingleside's younger sister, who stays with her so
much,--or even our quiet Ruth. But Lucilla Waters comes _just next_.
She can just reach up to her. She can see how she does up her hair, in
something approaching the new way, leaning back behind her in the
class and tracing out the twists between the questions; for Lucilla
can only afford to use her own, and a few strands of harmless Berlin
wool under it; she can't buy coils and braids and two-dollar rats, or
intricacies ready made up at the--upholsterer's, I was going to say.
So it is not a hopeless puzzle and an impracticable achievement to
little Arctura Fish. It is wonderful how nice she has made herself
look lately, and how many little ways she puts on, just like
Lucilla's. She hasn't got beyond mere mechanical copying, yet; when
she reaches to where Lucilla really is, she will take in differently.

Ruth gave up her little white room to Delia Waite, and went to sleep
with Lucilla in the great, square east room.

Delia Waite thought a great deal of this; and it was wonderful how
nobody could ever get a peep at the room when it looked as if anything
in it had been used or touched. Ruth is pretty nice about it; but she
cannot keep it so _sacredly_ fair and pure as Delia did for her. Only
one thing showed.

"I say," said Stephen, one morning, sliding by Ruth on the stair-rail
as they came down to breakfast, "do you look after that _piousosity_,
now, mornings?"

"No," said Ruth, laughing, "of course I can't."

"It's always whopped," said Stephen, sententiously.

Barbara got up some of her special cookery in these days. Not her very
finest, out of Miss Leslie; she said that was too much like the fox
and the crane, when Lucilla asked for the receipts. It wasn't fair to
give a taste of things that we ourselves could only have for very
best, and send people home to wish for them. But she made some of her
"griddles trimmed with lace," as only Barbara's griddles were trimmed;
the brown lightness running out at the edges into crisp filigree. And
another time it was the flaky spider-cake, turned just as it blushed
golden-tawny over the coals; and then it was breakfast potato, beaten
almost frothy with one white-of-egg, a pretty good bit of butter, a
few spoonfuls of top-of-the-milk, and seasoned plentifully with salt,
and delicately with pepper,--the oven doing the rest, and turning it
into a snowy souffle.

Barbara said we had none of