As for our clothes, O, mamma, Edith is ravishing in a deep blue-black
silk, with a curly, wavy sort of fringe on it, and odd loopings here
and there where you don't expect to find them. What can't a Parisian
dressmaker do? They have such a wonderful idea of appropriateness, it
seems to me. Now, at home you know we girls always wear the same sort
of thing, but Madame H---- says no, Edith, and I should dress very
differently; and now Edith's clothes all have a flow, and sweep, and
grace about them, and her silks rustle in a stately way as she walks,
while my dresses haven't any trimming to speak of, but are cut in a
clinging, square sort of way, with jackets, and here and there a buckle,
that makes me feel half the time as if I were playing soldier in a
lady-like fashion. But what a budget this is. How shocked the people
here would be. They take travel so solemnly, mamma, and treat Baedeker,
like the Bible,--and here am I crushing down Rome, and raising Paris on
top of it. Indeed, I can't help it, for Paris is utterly intoxicating.
It takes away your moral nature and adds it all into your powers of
enjoyment. Well, good-bye, my dear, and keep writing me tremendous
letters, won't you; for I do love you dearly.

Your loving daughter,

MAE.


Mae felt a great deal better when she had finished the letter, and, like
a volatile girl as she was, buttoned her Burt boots and Paris gloves,
singing gaily a dash from Trovatore in a very light-hearted manner.

"Why, you look like a different girl," cried Eric, as she entered the