"The captain's name was Florimond de Champdivers," she said in his ear.

"I did not hear it," he answered, taking her supple body in his arms, and covered her wet face with kisses.

A melodious chirping was audible behind, followed by a beautiful chuckle, and the voice of Messire de Malétroit wished his new nephew a good-morning.

A GALA DRESS1

MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

"I DON'T care anything about goin' to that Fourth of July picnic, 'Liz'beth."

"I wouldn't say anything more about it, if I was you, Em❜ly. I'd get ready an' go."

"I don't really feel able to go, 'Liz'beth."

"I'd like to know why you ain't able."

"It seems to me as if the fire-crackers an' the tootin' on those horns would drive me crazy; an' Matilda Jennings says they're goin' to have a cannon down there, an' fire it off every halfhour. I don't feel as if I could stan' it. You know my nerves ain't very strong, 'Liz'beth."

Elizabeth Babcock uplifted her long, delicate nose with its transparent nostrils and sniffed. Apparently her sister's perverseness had an unacceptable odor to her. "I wouldn't talk so if I was you, Em'ly. Of course you're goin'. It's your turn to, an' you know it. I went to meetin' last Sabbath. You just put on that dress an' go." Emily eyed her sister. She tried not to look pleased. "I know you went to meetin' last," said she, hesitatingly; "but a Fourth of July picnic is a little more of a rarity." She fairly jumped, her sister confronted her with such sudden vigor. "Rarity! Well, I hope a Fourth of July picnic ain't quite

1 From A New England Nun and Other Stories. Copyright by Harper and Brothers, 1890. Reprinted by permission.

such a treat to me that I'd ruther go to it than meetin'! I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself speakin' so, Em'ly Babcock."

Emily, a moment before delicately alert and nervous like her sister, shrank limply in her limp black muslin. "I didn't think how it sounded, 'Liz'beth."

"Well, I should say you'd better think. It don't sound very becomin' for a woman of your age, an' professin' what you do. Now you'd better go an' get out that dress, and rip the velvet off, an' sew the lace on. There won't be any too much time. They'll start early in the mornin'. I'll stir up a cake for you to carry, when I get tea."

"Don't you s'pose I could get along without a cake?" Emily ventured tremulously.

"Well, I shouldn't think you'd want to go, an' be beholden to other folks for your eatin'; I shouldn't."

"I shouldn't want anything to eat."

"I guess if you go, you're goin' like other folks. I ain't goin' to have Matilda Jennings peekin' an' pryin' an' tellin' things, if I know it. You'd better get out that dress."

"Well," said Emily, with a long sigh of remorseful satisfaction. She arose, showing a height that would have approached the majestic had it not been so wavering. The sisters were about the same height, but Elizabeth usually impressed people as being the taller. She carried herself with so much decision that she seemed to keep every inch of her stature firm and taut, old woman although she was.

"Let's see that dress a minute," she said, when Emily returned. She wiped her spectacles, set them firmly, and began examining the hem of the dress, holding it close to her eyes. "You're. gettin' of it all tagged out," she declared, presently. "I thought you was. I thought I see some ravellin's hangin' the other day when I had it on. It's jest because you don't stand up straight. It ain't any longer for you than it is for me, if you didn't go all bent over so. There ain't any need of it."

Emily oscillated wearily over her sister and the dress. "I ain't very strong in my back, an' you know I've got a weakness

in my stomach that henders me from standin' up as straight as you do," she rejoined, rallying herself for a feeble defence.

"You can stan' up jest as well as I can, if you're a mind to." "I'll rip that velvet off now, if you'll let me have the dress, 'Liz'beth."

Elizabeth passed over the dress, handling it gingerly. "Mind you don't cut it rippin' of it off," said she.

it.

Emily sat down, and the dress lay in shiny black billows over her lap. The dress was black silk, and had been in its day very soft and heavy; even now there was considerable wear left in The waist and over-skirt were trimmed with black velvet ribbon. Emily ripped off the velvet; then she sewed on some old-fashioned, straight-edged black lace full of little embroidered sprigs. The sisters sat in their parlor at the right of the front door. The room was very warm, for there were two west windows, and a hot afternoon sun was beating upon them. Out in front of the house was a piazza, with a cool uneven brick floor, and a thick lilac growth across the western end. The sisters might have sat there and been comfortable, but they would not.

"Set right out in the face an' eyes of all the neighbors!" they would have exclaimed with dismay had the idea been suggested. There was about these old women and all their belongings a certain gentle and deprecatory reticence. One felt it immediately upon entering their house, or indeed upon coming in sight of it. There were never any heads at the windows; the blinds were usually closed. Once in a while a passer-by might see an old woman, well shielded by shawl and scooping sun-bonnet, start up like a timid spirit in the yard, and softly disappear through a crack in the front door. Out in the front yard Emily had a little bed of flowers of balsams and nasturtiums and portulacas; she tended them with furtive glances toward the road. Elizabeth came out in the early morning to sweep the brick floor of the piazza, and the front door was left ajar for a hurried flitting should any one appear.

This excessive shyness and secrecy had almost the aspect of guilt, but no more guileless and upright persons could have

been imagined than these two old women. They had over their parlor windows full, softly falling old muslin curtains, and they looped them back to leave bare the smallest possible space of glass. The parlor chairs retreated close to the walls, the polish of the parlor table lit up a dim corner. There were very few ornaments in sight; the walls were full of closets and little cupboards, and in them all superfluities were tucked away to protect them from dust and prying eyes. Never a door in the house stood open, every bureau drawer was squarely shut. A whole family of skeletons might have been well hidden in these guarded recesses; but skeletons there were none, except, perhaps, a little innocent bone or two of old-womanly pride and sensitiveness.

The Babcock sisters guarded nothing more jealously than the privacy of their meals. The neighbors considered that there was a decided reason for this. "The Babcock girls have so little to eat that they're ashamed to let folks see it," people said. It was certain that the old women regarded intrusion at their meals as an insult, but it was doubtful if they would not have done so had their table been set out with all the luxuries of the season instead of scanty bread and butter and no sauce. No sauce for tea was regarded as very poor living by the village

women.

To-night the Babcocks had tea very soon after the lace was sewed on the dress. They always had tea early. They were in the midst of it when the front-door opened, and a voice was heard calling out in the hall.

The sisters cast a dismayed and indignant look at each other; they both arose; but the door flew open, and their little square tea-table, with its green-and-white china pot of weak tea, its plate of bread and little glass dish of butter, its two china cups, and thin silver teaspoons, was displayed to view.

"My!" cried the visitor, with a little backward shuffle. "I do hope you'll 'scuse me! I didn't know you was eatin' supper. I wouldn't ha' come in for the world if I'd known. I'll go right out; it wa’n't anything pertickler, anyhow." All the time her sharp and comprehensive gaze was on the tea-table. She

counted the slices of bread, she measured the butter, as she talked. The sisters stepped forward with dignity.

"Come into the other room," said Elizabeth; and the visitor, still protesting, with her backward eyes upon the tea-table, gave way before her.

But her eyes lighted at seeing something in the parlor more eagerly than they had upon that frugal and exclusive table. The sisters glanced at each other in dismay. The black silk dress lay over a chair. The caller, who was their neighbor Matilda Jennings, edged toward it as she talked. "I thought I'd jest run over an' see if you wan't goin' to the picnic to-morrow," she was saying. Then she clutched the dress and diverged. "Oh, you've been fixin' your dress!" she said to Emily, with innocent insinuation. Insinuation did not sit well upon Matilda Jennings; none of her body lines were adapted to it, and the pretence was quite evident. She was short and stout, with a hard, sallow rotundity of cheek; her small black eyes were bright-pointed under fleshy brows.

"Yes, I have,” replied Emily, with a scared glance at Elizabeth.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, stepping firmly into the subject, and confronting Matilda with prim and resolute blue eyes. has been fixin' of it. The lace was ripped off, an' she had to mend it."

"It's pretty lace, ain't it? I had some of the same kind on a mantilla once when I was a girl. This makes me think of it. The sprigs in mine was set a little closer. Let me see, 'Liz'beth, your black silk dress is trimmed with velvet, ain't it?"

Elizabeth surveyed her calmly. "Yes, I've always worn. black velvet on it," said she.

Emily sighed faintly. She had feared that Elizabeth could not answer desirably and be truthful.

"Let me see," continued Matilda, "how was that velvet put on your waist ?"

"It was put on peaked."

"In one peak or two?" "One."