much rather have no religion, and enjoy life while I'm in it, than choose
one to worry me here and bedevil me hereafter. But some people, my dear,
have a taste for being miserable, and provide, like poor Austin, for its
gratification in the next world as well as here. Ha, ha, ha! how grave the
little woman looks! Don't you think me very wicked? You know you do; and
very likely you are right. Who makes your dresses, my dear? You _are_ such
a figure of fun!'

'Mrs. Rusk, I think, ordered _this_ dress. I and Mary Quince planned it. I
thought it very nice. We all like it very well.'

There was something, I dare say, very whimsical about it, probably very
absurd, judged at least by the canons of fashion, and old Cousin Monica
Knollys, in whose eye the London fashions were always fresh, was palpably
struck by it as if it had been some enormity against anatomy, for she
certainly laughed very heartily; indeed, there were tears on her cheeks
when she had done, and I am sure my aspect of wonder and dignity, as her
hilarity proceeded, helped to revive her merriment again and again as it
was subsiding.

'There, you mustn't be vexed with old Cousin Monica,' she cried, jumping
up, and giving me a little hug, and bestowing a hearty kiss on my forehead,
and a jolly little slap on my cheek. 'Always remember your cousin Monica is
an outspoken, wicked old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by her
nonsense. A council of three--you all sat upon it--Mrs. Rusk, you said, and
Mary Quince, and your wise self, the weird sisters; and Austin stepped in,
as Macbeth, and said, 'What is't ye do?' you all made answer together, 'A
something or other without a name!' Now, seriously, my dear, it is quite
unpardonable in Austin--your papa, I mean--to hand you over to be robed and
bedizened according to the whimsies of these wild old women--aren't they