home. She said they had one
child, a beautiful girl, who lived until she was seventeen, and
then died of some wasting disease. She had been dead fifteen
years, but the old couple had never got over her loss. 'I am
there often,' Edna went on, 'but I have never once been without
hearing Maisie's name mentioned; they are always talking about
her. One day Mrs. Blondell took me upstairs and showed me all
her things. There were her little gowns, most of them white,
folded in the big wardrobe. 'She was to have worn this at her
first ball,' said the poor woman, pulling down a lace dress; it
looked quite fresh somehow, only the satin slip was a trifle
discolored. There were the shoes, and the silk stockings, and a
case of pearls, and the long gloves. 'She would have looked
lovely in it,' she went on, smoothing out the folds with her
tremulous fingers. 'Rupert says she would have made hearts ache.
Thank you my dear, you are very kind,' for I could not help
hugging the dear old thing. It made me cry, too, to hear her.
'I go there very often because they like to see me; they will
have it I am like Maisie, but I am not half so pretty.' And
Edna laughed, though her eyes were moist, and touched up Jill
rather smartly.

"We had some people to dinner that evening, so Edna made me put
on my Indian muslin, which she said looked very nice. She wore a
soft white silk herself, which suited her admirably. She has
some beautiful dresses which she showed me; she says her mother
thinks nothing too good for her, and showers presents on her.
She gets tired of her dresses before they are half worn out. I
was half afraid she was going to offer me one, for she looked at
me rather wistfully, but I made a pretext to leave the room. I
enjoyed myself very much that evening. The curate took me in to
dinner, and I found him very clever and amusing, and he talked
so much that, though I was very hungry, I could hardly get
enough to eat; but Edna, who declared that she had had no dinner
either, brought me up a great plate of cake when we went to bed.
Edna sang beautifully that evening, and the curate--his name is
Horton--sung too, and Florence Atherton brought her violin. I
had never heard a lady play the violin before, but Edna tells me
I am old-fashioned, and that it is all the rage at present, and
certai