receive most gratefully, it is the prompt recognition of a need, and
unobtrusive aid for it. A short time before the day appointed for us to
go to the city, our Clara came down stairs dressed in a beautiful dark
shade of blue Foulard silk, with a lace ruff about her throat, fastened
with a lemon-colored bow.

The blood rushed with a full tide to my face when my eyes fell upon her
as she entered. Simple, I presume, to those accustomed to elegant
costume would her attire have seemed, but to me, as yet uninitiated in
the mysteries of society, dress, etc., she was the perfection of
loveliness, and the impression made upon me was an indelible one; I
never saw anything half so lovely and perfect as she at that moment
appeared to me.

It was an unusual thing too for her to be dressed so nicely for an
afternoon at home. She had, I knew, many beautiful dresses, and had told
me sometimes of the elaborate toilets of the city, but had heretofore
donned as an afternoon dress the gray mohair she wore when she came, and
a light blue scarf over her shoulders was the only color she wore about
her. The weather was warm but the heat was never oppressive to her--her
blood, she said, had never felt as it were really warm since the night
her husband died. On this particular afternoon, we were talking
principally of Hal, and my eyes unconsciously riveted their gaze on the
folds of her dress hanging so gracefully about her, and trailing softly
on the carpet if moved.

I wondered too a little at it, for I noticed it to be quite long in
front as well as behind. The afternoon was far spent, and it was nearly
time for Ben and father to come in to supper. Before she made any
allusion to her extra toilette, extra for our little home, and nodding