accepted with all becoming form and gratitude: so Mr. Dawson's sharp
glances over his spectacles failed to detect anything but the truest
pleasure, and he went on.

"You'll find it very dull, I dare say. Only a few old fogies like
myself, and one or two good sweet young women: I never know who'll
come. Margaret is obliged to lie in a darkened room--only half-
lighted I mean,--because her eyes are weak,--oh, it will be very
stupid, I dare say: don't thank me till you've been once and tried
it, and then if you like it, your best thanks will be to come again
every Monday, from half-past seven to nine, you know. Good-bye,
good-bye."

Hitherto I had never been out to a party of grown-up people; and no
court ball to a London young lady could seem more redolent of honour
and pleasure than this Monday evening to me.

Dressed out in new stiff book-muslin, made up to my throat,--a frock
which had seemed to me and my sisters the height of earthly grandeur
and finery--Alice, our old nurse, had been making it at home, in
contemplation of the possibility of such an event during my stay in
Edinburgh, but which had then appeared to me a robe too lovely and
angelic to be ever worn short of heaven--I went with Miss Duncan to
Mr. Dawson's at the appointed time. We entered through one small
lofty room, perhaps I ought to call it an antechamber, for the house
was old-fashioned, and stately and grand, the large square drawing-
room, into the centre of which Mrs. Dawson's sofa was drawn. Behind
her a little was placed a table with a great cluster candlestick upon
it, bearing seven or eight wax-lights; and that was all the light in
the room, which looked to me very vast and indistinct after our