Margaret Maliphant

								

believe--"we shall be late if we don't make haste. Do get on, Joyce."
Joyce began brushing out her long golden hair--real gold hair, not
faint flaxen--and coiled the smooth, shining bands of it round her
little head. It was a little head, such as I have seen in the pictures
of the Virgins painted by Italian painters of long ago.
"I sha'n't be long," said she.
I sat down and watched her. She would not have let me help her if I
had wanted to do so. She would have said that I should only disarrange
myself, and that I should be of no use. Certainly nothing was wanted
but what she did for herself, and she did it quickly enough. When she
stood up before the mirror--tipped back to show the most of her person,
for we had no pier-glasses at the Grange--I do not believe that any one
could have found a thing to improve in her. Her figure looked taller
and slenderer than ever in the long white dress, and the soft little
folds of the muslin clung tenderly around her delicate shape, just
leaving bare her neck and arms, that were firm and white as alabaster.
Her face was flushed as a May rose; her lips were parted in her anxiety
to hasten, and showed the little even white teeth within. Her blue eyes
were clear and soft under the black lashes.
She moved before the glass to see that her dress was not too long, and
bent back her slender throat, upon which she had just clasped mother's
delicate little old-fashioned gold necklace with the drops of yellow
beryl-stone. It was the only bit of good jewellery in the family, and
Joyce always wore it, it became her so well.
"Come now, Meg," said she, "I am quite ready. Let's go and see if we
can do anything to help mother."
We went down-stairs. Deborah was there in mother's room waiting to
survey us all. She had just fastened mother's dove-colored satin gown
that had served her for every party she had been at since she was
married. Mother had just the same shaped cap on that she always wore;
she never would alter it for any fashion, but that night the frill
of it was made of beautiful old lace that she kept in blue paper and
lavender all the rest of the year. I thought she looked splendid, but
Joyce was not so easily pleased.
"Dear mother, you really must have another gown before you go anywhere
again," said she, shaking out the skirt with a dissatisfied air. "This
satin has lost all its stiffness."
Mother looked at it a little anxiously herself, I remember, when Joyce
said this. We considered Joyce a judge of dress and the fashions,
and of course the squire's ball was a great occasion. But she said
she thought it did very well for an old lady, and indeed so did I,
although that may perhaps have been because I was very anxious to be
off.
Dear mother! I do not think she gave much thought to herself; she was
taken up with pride in us. Yes, I do believe that night she was proud
even of me.
She smiled when Deborah, with her hand on the door-knob, said,